


Wild

by FlammaIgnis



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: A different direction for the "Wild at Heart" quest from The Witcher 3, Betrayal, Curses, Difficult Decisions, F/M, Romance, Secrets, Sexual Content, Werewolf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-12 19:18:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7946059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlammaIgnis/pseuds/FlammaIgnis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Geralt accepts what he thinks will be a straightforward contract to find a missing person-a hunter's wife- in the remote village of Blackbough, far in the forests of Velen... **A different course of events for the Witcher III quest "Wild at Heart."** Contains spoilers. Niellen x Hanna</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blackbough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Wild at Heart" was a quest in The Witcher III that really got to me. The Niellen-Hanna-Margaret love triangle was intriguing...and tragic. From the moment I met Margaret, I was suspicious as all get-out. And when the truth was finally revealed, I felt profoundly sad for the melancholy and lovelorn hunter-werewolf who retrieved an inkling of his humanity too late to avert disaster. Unable to live knowing he was responsible for his beloved wife's death and unwilling to carry on without her, he surrendered tamely to Geralt, who appeared to perform his Witcher's duty in this case with a heavy heart.
> 
> Werewolves in the Witcher are self-aware. They speak: they threaten, they make pacts, and deals. To me they seem like a Shadow Aspect of the personality. I can't imagine the man would be so disconnected from the beast...And that got me thinking.
> 
> What if things had turned out differently in "Wild at Heart"? What if Niellen in his werewolf form had recognized Hanna during that fateful attack?
> 
> The result is this story.
> 
> Warning: it has sexually explicit content. Some of it involving a werewolf. Yep. If that's not your thing, then we can say goodnight now and still respect each other in the morning.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this story. Leave me a review and/or kudos. It makes my day, sometimes my week, and is all I ask.
> 
> Thank you!

 

* * *

"There is a wolf in me … fangs pointed for tearing gashes … a red

tongue for raw meat … and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this

wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness

will not let it go."

"Wilderness", Carl Sandburg

* * *

 

Geralt of Rivia wandered into Blackbough in the early evening, the sky streaked with fiery reds and radiant oranges. He'd traveled for hours traversing the wooded country, eager to reach the shelter before nightfall. The village itself was unremarkable: just a settlement of hardy thatched huts inhabited by what seemed to be even hardier people. He noticed with some relief that isolated as it was, the village would be able to provide him with some basic amenities: a merchant stood alone in the small square, stashing away his wares for the day, and a blacksmith's sign swung back and forth in the mild breeze over one of the doorways nearby. Before the merchant could slip away, Geralt quickly accosted him.

"Is there an inn here?" he asked.

The merchant shook his head. "No," he stated, a bit taken aback by the white-haired stranger. "There used to be, but travelers are rare this way…and since the war…even less."

He peered around: windows glowed brightly and the odor of roasted meat wafted in the air.

"If you want to stay the night," the man continued, "you should ask Karel—go down the road outside the village and turn left at the fork. He might let you stay in his barn. For a price."

Geralt fingered the strings of the small coin pouch hanging on his belt pensively.

"And do you know where I can find a man called Niellen?"

The merchant's face softened.

"Ah! You must be here about the business with Hanna." He shook his head sadly and gazed towards a group of modest cottages crowded next to each other further ahead. "Poor Niellen. Situation must have grown dire if he's resorted to hiring a—"

"Thanks. See you later," he interrupted, walking away, uninterested in pursuing the conversation further.

* * *

A vast, starry sky arched over Geralt as he stepped towards the rustic barn. The old farmer named Karel had not been comfortable with him, he could tell. Karel openly gaped at his eyes while they negotiated, but the Witcher's generous offer to pay an inflated price for a heap of straw in a drafty barn along with some food quickly revived the man.

"It'll be good for the animal," the farmer decided, pocketing the coins received and tilting his head at Roach. "Wolves make them nervous, eh? Lots of wolves in these parts, especially after dark."

Geralt had gladly taken the small basket filled with a generous hunk of hearty dark bread, a quarter of a block of cheese, and some dried meat. Once in the barn, he unfurled his bedroll, leaned back against his pack and with flick of his hand, cast Ignii over the lantern he'd borrowed. He read over the contract he'd accepted in Mulbrydale, just a day earlier. The town cryer hadn't even gotten a chance to announce it publicly; he'd seized the contract from the lad's hands.

"What's this?"

"Just arrived," the young man explained. "Courier brought it in."

The contract he held in his hand was new—the chances someone else had undertaken the task were slim to none. Best of all, it was straightforward: missing wife, desperate husband. He held the contract between his lips as he uncorked a wine bottle. At best, the wife had simply gone off to visit a neighboring village without informing them. Perhaps there was even a note sitting right on the kitchen table that the husband hadn't noticed—he'd seen similar things happen before. At worst, the wife was dead. At the _very_ worst, it was the husband's doing.

He tipped back the bottle and took a swig of dry Redanian wine.

 _Regardless_ , he decided, _it is easy work_. He'd look around a bit, engage his senses, and solve the disappearance.

A chilling wind eked between the cracks of the old barn and one of the horses nearby neighed restlessly.

"Whoa," Geralt uttered gently, peering up.

It was then that he heard an unnerving sound: the piercing, plaintive howling of wolves in the near distance. The sound was eerily beautiful even if the proximity to the village was concerning.

 _Maybe there is someone willing to pay me to chase the wolves away_ , he thought, as he wrapped a coarse blanket around himself.

* * *

The man he sought lived in the center of the small village in a simple cottage behind a split rail fence. Tall stalks of gladiolus hedging the fence bobbed in the breeze. A few chickens strutted across the yard, pecking busily at the ground. When Geralt knocked on the front door, he was greeted by a shapely young woman wearing a wide brimmed tightly-woven straw hat. Her freckled demeanor justified her fashion choice, as tiny speckles powdered her fair cheeks and the bridge of her nose. When he had shown her the contract, she had stiffened as if taken by surprise. Before he was able to ask her any questions, though, a tall, imposing man appeared behind her, his eyes widening upon recognizing who was calling on them.

"Can I help you?" he asked guardedly.

"I was about to ask the same question," Geralt stated. "May I come in?"

Niellen directed him to a wooden chair by the kitchen table. The woman with the hat was introduced as Margaret, his sister-in-law and the missing woman's sister. She quickly vanished into one of the rooms after the introduction, quietly shutting the door behind her. After some gentle prodding, Geralt got Niellen to explain what had happened: Hanna, his wife, had gone missing five days earlier. When asked, Niellen revealed he had been off on a hunting outing, as he often was, and when he returned, she was gone. Margaret did not seem to know her sister's whereabouts either.

"Can you help me, Witcher?"

Niellen, as far as he had gathered, was well liked in the village. While trying to locate his cottage, the small group of villagers he approached had offered, unprompted, that Niellen was a good man: he provided well for his wife—it was a pity they hadn't been blessed with children yet, they often added— and he was generous, allowing Margaret to live with them. They were grateful to him: he was not afraid of braving the woods despite the wolves lurking there. He was kind: he sold the game he caught at fair prices and wasn't averse to bartering his meat for other goods. He worked hard, according to the villagers, often heading far beyond the village to track game.

"T'is a hard time for all of us," an old man had mused, while resting on his knobby cane.

Geralt scratched his chin while contemplating the cottage. Everything looked neat. Tidy. One would never guess at any upheaval from merely glancing at the orderly room.

"Tell me something: did you notice if anything was missing?"

Niellen betrayed a perplexed look.

"Any missing clothing? Personal effects?... Coin?"

"No…" Niellen offered. His expression hardened once he realized what Geralt was insinuating. "Hanna would not have taken off without an explanation! It's not like her at all!"

"You realize I have to ask such questions, right?"

"Between us there's no strife!" he argued.

"Are you sure she would be of the same opinion?" Geralt provoked.

He observed Niellen, trying to garner whether the hunter was hiding something. He'd seen the worst come out in people during trying times. It would not have surprised him one bit if Niellen had done away with his wife. _What are some possible scenarios?_ he began to ponder. Perhaps the attractive sister-in-law suited him better? He wondered at the odd domestic arrangement, eyeing Margaret's closed bedroom door. He was quite certain that if he were to yank the door open, Margaret would stumble out, her hand still cupped to her ear.

"I don't know," Niellen finally admitted after staring at the ground for a moment. "You will have to ask Hanna herself. All I know is that I left on a hunting outing one night and when I returned early the next morning, I found the bed empty—no sign of Hanna. It was unusual, so I went looking for her immediately."

"It was unusual?"

"Aye," the man nodded.

"Interesting."

"Why?"Niellen puzzled.

"Couldn't she be out doing chores or running an errand? Why would you be so convinced something was wrong because of something so circumstantial?" Geralt prodded. _Unless, of course, you were behind her disappearance and are trying to cover your tracks._

The man's expression clouded with a pained look.

"Because…it is not something she would do."

"What? She never does chores or runs errands?" he questioned, surprised.

Niellen pressed his lips closer together, and with a furtive glance towards the door, began to speak softly.

"Hanna and I, we always…She does not like it when I spend the night away. Anytime I go away on a hunting trip, I return as early as I can, with the dawn, so we can…" he paused, slightly flustered, "So we can have some time to ourselves, together…before the day begins," he stated meaningfully.

_Ah. Time together._

"How long since you two have been wed?" Geralt wondered.

"Eight months. Eight of the happiest months of my wretched life," he stated, gazing away.

He decided there was something terribly melancholy about the hunter, with his sad eyes, in worn hunting clothes. Around his neck was a medallion: Melitele.

 _Appropriate_ , he thought, as he sat back in the rustic chair. The goddess was said to offer her protection and aid to foresters and hunters.

"Did she have any enemies? Anyone who might bear her a grudge?"

At that question he noticed when Niellen's eyes darted briefly to the closed bedroom door. He finally shook his head.

"What else can you tell me about Hanna?"

The hunter cast him a weary look.

"When I checked back with Margaret after looking around the village, she told me she hadn't noticed or heard anything unusual: we'd had an early supper the night before, and afterwards, they stayed up for a bit finishing some of the day's chores before retiring for the night."

Geralt nodded.

"That's fine: I'll talk to Margaret soon enough… but I wanted to know if there was anything else I needed to know about Hanna. Anything else that would help me identify her when—"

"Hanna is tall. About this high," he indicated, placing his flattened hand before his nose. "Her hair is long, almost down to her waist…A dark gold…She's very graceful and… gentle. And trusting." His brow furrowed. "Too trusting, even. And she sings softly when she thinks she's alone..." Niellen's voice trailed off and he inhaled deeply. "Do you smell that?"

Geralt stared.

"No?" He appeared a bit crestfallen. "It still smells like Hanna in here: warm—like smoke from the hearth,—and spices. She smells like... home," he told him. "And now I'm afraid that smell is fading," he acknowledged somberly.

The Witcher pressed his lips tightly, a weariness weighing upon him. Unless the man was a formidable actor or a charlatan—sometimes both, if his experience with Dandelion and his troupe served him right—then he could only conclude that the man was in love with his wife. Hopelessly in love at that. He still spoke of her with the reverence of a man who could not believe his good fortune. And if his account was to be trusted, they were also very… 'physically' active, given their cozy arrangement to make up for lost time in the early morning hours...

He wanted to believe the poor, lovelorn man had nothing to do with his wife's disappearance. Niellen was clearly distraught; he could tell.

 _She smells like home_ , Geralt recalled Niellen's turn of phrase sympathetically. For the hunter that scent was of smoke and spice.

For him, it was the perfume of lilacs and gooseberries.


	2. The Search Begins

"There is no rule more invariable than that we are paid for our suspicions by finding what we suspect."

\- Henry David Thoreau

* * *

"I have no idea," Margaret announced, shrugging.

She sat dejectedly on a chair, as if enduring Geralt's questions less-than-patiently. So far he had gathered this much from the uncooperative woman: Hanna was older.

"Did she ever mention whether she and Neillen are having any problems?"

Margaret paused and her eyes perused the air as if seeking something in her memory.

"She didn't like it when he was away. Sometimes he's gone three nights at a time. But…no. They seemed fine."

"Did she ever take off before? Could she be visiting a friend in a nearby village and forgot to mention it?..."

"No. Hannah didn't know anyone outside the village—we come from elsewhere," she continued.

"Hm," Gerald huffed. "Is she prone to wandering the village outskirts? Maybe she has a penchant for collecting…I don't know…herbs?" he ventured.

Margaret shook her head, the wide brim concealing her eyes.

"She never wandered out alone. Niellen warned her about that many times. He says there are terrible things out in the forest and that no one unarmed and inexperienced should be out there."

Something about Margaret was bothering him.

"What do you think happened?" he asked her abruptly.

Margaret blinked.

"She was home one night and then gone in the morning. How am I supposed to know? Was I supposed to be my sister's guardian?"

"You don't find it odd that she's disappeared?"

"I do, but—"

Geralt narrowed his eyes.

"But what?"

"Niellen's a good man. He doesn't deserve all this. For how long's this going to go on?" she complained in a lower voice.

"I'm looking into it," Geralt told her. "And I'm bound to find out," he stated in a warning tone.

He stood, prepared to follow up with some villagers who had known Hanna.

"Tell me something, Margaret," Geralt began, turning to face the freckled brunette. She peered back at him in that standoffish manner of hers. "Do you hope your sister is still alive?"

At this, the woman's expression clouded.

"What kind of question is that?"

"Just something that came to mind."

"I don't know what'd make you ask such a thing!" she snapped, crossing her arms defiantly.

"You see, you are the only one who talks about Hanna in the past. I find that…curious," he stated pointedly.

He watched the woman clench her fists so tightly, her knuckles blanched.

"Is there anything else, or may I tend to my chores? In case you haven't noticed, life's got to go on. There're linens to wash still and meals to prepare…"

 _And a bed you are hoping to warm?_ he wondered as he stepped outside.

The door slammed loudly behind him.

* * *

Geralt hadn't sensed anything noteworthy just outside the village. All the tracks were muddled: too many to single out any one in particular. Instead, he'd spoken to the blacksmith's children, who referred to Hanna as "Aunt." The blacksmith as well, seemed fond of her. A widower, he admitted to finding his young brood a handful on occasion. Hanna often watched the children for him.

"To be honest, Witcher, it wasn't because I was _busy_ ; I just wanted a breather. Go for a tankard…maybe a few rounds of Gwent," he confided glumly. "Truth is, children need their mothers at this age."

"Yes, an opinion most overwhelmed fathers fervently proclaim," Geralt grinned, leaning against the fence. He was momentarily reminded of Ciri, still a wisp of a thing, in tightly braided pigtails, her slender arms tightly crossed as she sported a furious expression. He was overcome with affection at the memory and smiled wistfully. _It is not easy sometimes..._

"Hanna is a big help. She likes children. It is a shame she hasn't been blessed with her own…" the man paused, distracted for a moment by something unfolding behind him. Geralt turned to look just as his son clumsily collided into the split rail fence with a poorly calculated leap. "Or _cursed_!" the smith suddenly yelled out, rushing to the boy.

One of the children later mentioned something to them about seeing Hanna venturing out of the village into the forest at early dusk. She was following a hooded woman, according to the younger child. It was all they had to say on the matter. The blacksmith apologized.

"But, you know, he's not the most reliable, my boy. A little flighty in the head, that one. He claims he sees my poor deceased wife at the dinner table with us and that the goats tell him secrets about the whereabouts of hidden treasure." The man revealed quietly.

Geralt didn't bother arguing that those things could very well be.

Glenna, the butcher's wife, only had kind things to say, as well.

"Did she ever confide in you about Niellen?" Geralt asked, trying not to stare at the attractive redhead's revealing cleavage. The woman grinned, suddenly amused by a thought.

"Oh, _yes_."

He stood expectantly.

"Well?"

"She confided in _me_. Not in _you_. You don't expect me to tell you what she told me in private, do you?" she scolded him simply.

"If there is anything that could help me in finding her, I think your indiscretion would be excused this once," he argued.

"Hmm," she mused. "I really don't know how my telling you how much she enjoyed lying with her husband would help you any."

"It helps me more than you imagine." If anything, it corroborated Niellen's account.

"Me as well, Witcher," the woman sighed. "It's nice knowing at least someone is enjoying themselves around here." She gazed crossly towards her hut. "This may be the butcher's house, but you'd be hard pressed to find the sausage, you see."

At that unexpected revelation, Geralt couldn't help chuckling. The woman finally laughed conspiratorially as well.

"Now don't you go repeating what I've gone and told you in _private_. _Your_ indiscretion will not be forgiven!" She playfully raised her chopping knife at him. "Now go find our Hanna and bring her home already, won't you?"

* * *

Geralt left Roach at the barn and decided to venture into the infamous forest. As he began to wander through the dense woods, patches of fading sunlight shone through the canopy. Soon it would be dark. Since he hadn't been able to glean anything significant during the day, perhaps the mystery would begin to unravel at night.

He hadn't gone very far from the village when he came across a pack of wolves concentrated in a small clearing. As they sensed his approach, they all turned their snarling muzzles towards him.

He unsheathed his sword, gripping the pommel firmly as he crouched lower into a defensive stance.

* * *

He slid his sword out of the last wolf with an expression of disgust. During saner times, most wolves tended to give him a wide berth. Those wolves, however, had grown bold.

"They have probably grown fond of the taste of humans," he realized darkly. He began to search the area where the wolves had assembled. He noticed there was a familiar scent and made out fairly markings in the dirt. Before he could proceed, though, he realized he was not alone. He sensed movement behind him at a nearby distance. As he halted, the footfalls halted as well.

"I have no patience for this," he warned. "Who comes?" he yelled, whirling around and hoisting up his blade menacingly.

An unwieldy, but unmistakable, straw hat emerged from the brush further back.

"Margaret!" he scolded, lowering his sword. "Aren't you a bit far from the village?

The woman approached him sullenly, a cautious expression in her eyes.

"Witcher—a word, if you will."

"You shouldn't be out here all by yourself!" he repeated.

"I needed to tell you, before you ran into any danger: you needn't look for Hanna. She'd'ave returned long past were she alive," she stated seriously. Geralt examined her hard stare, the tense, stiff body language. "I'll pay you twice Niellen's pledge," she continued, more passionately. "Just tell the man his Hanna is dead."

Geralt gazed towards the village, smoke spiraling up from the chimneys, hearths stoked, bracing for the chilly night.

"Don't wanna know what happened to her?" He arched an eyebrow.

The woman looked down at the ground, blinking pensively.

"I've no illusions, Witcher. In Velen, you're gone as long as she's been, you don't come back. Hanna's dead for certain. Niellen ought to accept his loss, move on with his life," she offered dispassionately.

Geralt stared at Margaret and could not decipher her inscrutable expression.

 _Double the orens. That would be nice, for a change_. And he could walk away. No need to be embroiled in that sad business any further…

 _She smells like home..._ he recalled. He inhaled deeply. He knew Niellen's despair well. He knew that whatever he told the hunter would not settle the matter. He would not rest. He knew this for a fact because it's what he would do. Besides, Margaret's certainty regarding her sister's fate was unsettling. It nagged at him. Her tendency to refer to Hanna in the past tense was as damning as that hat of hers was dowdy, he concluded.

Like hell he was going to be bribed.

"Sorry," he replied. "Not in the habit of leaving jobs undone."

Rage flashed across Margaret's face.

"Folk speak truth about you Witchers. You're heartless beasts!" She turned away angrily and trudged up the steep incline towards the village.

Once she had disappeared, he directed his attention back to whatever had been exciting the wolves. Further examination revealed some torn clothing: a cloak, perhaps.

And blood. Lots of it.

His heart sank.

_Figures I'll have to be the bearer of bad news, after all. Except I won't be earning double the orens._

As he followed the trail of blood to a badly mauled corpse, he realized with a guilty twinge of relief that he was looking at an unfortunate man...Not, as he had feared, a woman.

 _A traveler_ , Geralt concluded, finding a satchel further ahead, its contents scattered over the ground.

Poor sod would never be reaching his destination. He combed through the man's belongings for any valuables: money, jewelry, weapons, and found little worth taking. Once he was done, he stepped back and cast Igni over the carcass, watching as the conjured flame swept over the flesh, charring the remains. No need to attract necrophages.

He had noticed a few things about the corpse before incinerating it, though.

Those scratches, such distinct gashes… deep and sharp teeth marks…none of that had been done by any ordinary wolf he knew of.

A feeling of foreboding overcame him and he cursed lightly. He needed to investigate further, confirm his suspicions. Before he left the clearing, the corpse now a blackened mass, he cast a surveying glance across the hillside.

_Where are you, Hanna?_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Margaret's dialogue trying to bribe Geralt to quit the contract is directly from the game.


	3. Balance

"And this is what happened, and this is why the caribou and the wolf are one; for the caribou feeds the wolf, but it is the wolf that keeps the caribou strong."  
― Farley Mowat

* * *

Niellen couldn't bear sitting in the cottage anymore. He was growing weary of Margaret's surreptitious staring and fussing over him. It bothered him. She moved about busily, taking command of things. He didn't like seeing her standing over the kitchen table he had always found Hanna preparing their meals in front of, using the same bowls, handling the same utensils. It wasn't right. She moved among all those things with a familiarity that discomfited him.

He needed to leave, he decided.

He hadn't been away from the cottage since Hanna's disappearance: he'd been keeping watch, waiting for her to return any minute. He, the village's celebrated hunter, had been unable to track down his own wife. He ignored the glances of pity cast his way; he had left matters in the hands of the Witcher.

And allying with a Witcher was a risky thing for him to do, he knew. It spoke to how desperate he was. He had to be very careful not to arouse his suspicions. He seized his pack, his crossbow and dagger, and fastened his cloak.

"Niellen! Where are you going?" Margaret turned around, an expression of reproach in her eyes as he approached the door.

"To the forest," he told her.

"But why? You should be here!" she protested. "And besides, it is pointless for you to go searching through the woods! You are already paying the Witcher to do so! Let him earn his—"

"Aren't you the one telling me to go about life as normal?" he chided her. "I am a hunter. I can't catch any game just by sitting here before the fire!"

Margaret relented, but she did not look pleased.

"Where will you be?"

"Out!" he replied crossly, shutting the door behind him.

In reality, he intended to head for the small hut he'd outfitted as a hunting base. He preferred that she not know about the hut. That night he wanted to be alone. The following night, he thought, glancing into the sky and contemplating the waxing moon, he would have no choice but to hide away. It was very bad timing, he decided, hurrying past the village's rear gate, to be forced into that condition when a Witcher was so close by.

* * *

He missed Hanna. They had never been apart for that long since they had been wed. Even through the worst of his transformations, he would return to her after, at the most, those unavoidable three nights.

And when he returned, he craved her. He craved her warmth, her scent, her touch. He missed how she sweetly made room in their bed at the sight of him at the doorway. He especially had liked summer mornings, when the air, already humid even before the sun had risen, prompted her to sleep naked beneath the sheet on the bed. He would bury his nose in her hair, burrow it in her neck, and caress her soft skin, sense her pulse quickening as he ran his hands over her body, his lustiness stoked by her hushed moans, her need for him seductively intense as she shifted beneath him, yielding to her desire.

They would lie together in the early mornings and afterwards remain in the bed a bit longer, pushing the beginning of the day back as long as they could: lazily, legs entwined, his hand resting over the swell of her hip, her lips reddened by the rough, hungry kisses he'd bestowed upon her. She'd caress his face, her hands running over his beard, gently brushing back the hair off his sweaty brow. In that way, slowly, she brought him back to himself. They would laugh and speak in quiet, conspiratorial tones about what had happened while he was away, who had said or done what, and his ears and mind were filled with the sounds of their everyday. Their life together was a talisman. A profoundly calming, taming effect overcame him when they spent time together.

He loved her devotedly and completely. She tethered him, gave him a reason to return after his forays into the wilderness, and to cling tooth and nail to what little of that side of his was worth salvaging.

And yet he knew, with an unease that weighed on him during his waking hours, that the price for living that precious life with her, for hiding and concealing his true self so diligently, was starting to take its toll on him. He had a routine, but lately he had found that his other side seemed to be growing more unruly, more unpredictable. Once he transformed, he sensed his grasp wane and his control fade.

He knew that part of the reason his love for Hanna ran so deep, that it was so entrenched in his being, was because she had also stirred that other, stormier, wilder, part of him, he thought, troubled.

* * *

 

When he had met her, more than a year before, he had resigned himself to what he thought was the inevitable: an itinerant, lonely life. Back then he rarely spent more than a couple months at a time in Blackbough. He left often, taking to the road, roaming after herds of game, visiting other villages. He sought new hunting grounds both in the wilderness… and in his bed. He'd traveled to the edge of Velen when he stepped into Hanna's village. He did what he always did, which was to bring in the game he had caught- quails, ducks, and rabbits—to sell at the town market. He was quickly welcomed.

"Caught them this morning, did you? They're good, these are," a woman told him, examining the fare he'd brought in. "Plump. Proper for a roast and then a good soup from the bones," she concluded.

He first spotted Hanna among the market's crowd, meandering past the stalls, a basket dangling over her arm, dark gold hair worked into a silken braid that grazed her waist.

 _So graceful_ , he found, his eyes drawn to her as she greeted folk. She spoke to the local merchants, flashing them a charming smile, her eyes modestly downcast. Doe-eyed and sweet. Something inside him was intrigued and drawn to her immediately. He had thought of little else from the moment he first laid eyes on Hanna.

It was her sister, though, who approached him. Hanna only followed her out of obligation.

"Look, Hanna! What if we brought some rabbits home instead? I'm tired of eating potatoes and we haven't caught anything in'r traps for days." She spoke to her sister, but her eyes were fixed upon him. "Hello," she added immediately. "You aren't from these parts, are you?"

He followed Hanna's every move with an intense focus.

"No… I am merely passing through," he stated. But he became less and less convinced of the veracity of that statement as he grew besotted.

* * *

_Margaret and Hanna._

When he'd finally managed to tear his eyes away from Hanna, he'd noticed the sister. She was younger and not unattractive. She was fair, with hair lighter than her sister's and a body more voluptuous. She cast him suggestive glances and flashed him an inviting smile, but it did nothing to him. It was Hanna who fascinated him. She was lovely and delicate and he relished the thought of what he could arouse in her if he succeeded in toppling that reserved façade—he dreamed of what fire he could spark.

He would have her, he decided.

He was, after all, an excellent hunter.

* * *

Margaret dragged her sister back the day after to the place he set up in at the market square with whatever game he'd managed to hunt put on display. They returned the day after that and then again. Every day Margaret asked him questions, played with her hair and smiled too much, too coyly.

"Niellen, you're married?" she'd asked him brazenly.

"No," he'd replied.

Hanna stood by silently, oblivious to his admiring stares. She had swooped her braid over her shoulder, baring the nape of her neck, so pale and lined with fair wisps of fine hair he longed to touch with his fingertips, his lips...

"No?" Margaret evinced surprise, broadly grinning at her sister. "So you're not the marrying kind, then?"

"How would I know? I have never been married before," he stated in a daze.

 _Niellen, Niellen_ …Margaret had endless questions anytime she stopped by his stall and he only entertained them because it meant Hanna remained there, as well.

He brought in wild geese one morning, their long necks dangling upside down as he arranged them to sell that day. Every day he waited and hoped until Margaret would finally make her way through the crowd with Hanna to greet him.

"Geese!" Margaret cheered. "Wouldn't it be so good?" she asked her quiet sister.

"It would," Hanna agreed. "But we cannot afford it."

"Shame," Margaret winced apologetically. She prodded them lightly with her finger."Look at them! Daft-looking things, aren't they? You'd think they'd be easy to snare," she complained.

They had all stood in awkward silence, contemplating the dead birds.

"Do you enjoy hunting?" Margaret asked.

"I have little choice: it is who I am," he replied, glancing towards the forest somberly. "But I do."

"Hanna pities the creatures you kill," she stated with amused malice.

At that Hanna had whirled around, a mortified expression on her delicate features.

"I pity them as well," he replied to Hanna, gently.

"But you are a hunter," Margaret insisted teasingly. "Hunters hunt!"

"I would find it difficult to take pleasure in a kill," Hanna offered in her quiet manner.

"I will not lie to you," he began. "Few things compare to the thrill of a chase, to stalking your prey and finally entrapping it through your own shrewdness and skill," he revealed sincerely, his eyes growing dark at the pleasure the memory afforded him. "Besides, it is the way of the forest: it is often the difference between life and death, starvation and prosperity..."

He noticed she peered at him curiously for the first time and his pulse quickened.

"I do understand. What I meant to say is that the taking of a life is not something to be undertaken lightly," she insisted. Her eyes were luminous, inquisitive. What thoughts and sentiments bloomed inside her mind, her heart? He wanted to know.

"Look at those stupid beasts," Margaret scoffed, indicating the geese. "Snap their necks and put them in the oven, I say," she huffed with a playful air, trying to stall the strange shift in the conversation.

"No," he agreed, blinking at Hanna slowly. "You are right. Every life, no matter how small, is of consequence. Nature is wild and cruel and any hunter worth his salt understands his place—that in truth there is no distinction between hunter and prey, between the life that must yield to death and the death that sustains life," he stated inscrutably.

Margaret glanced between Niellen and Hanna, confused. Hanna eyed him with an expression that made his heart beat stronger.

"Nature may be wild and cruel, but she is also beautiful," she stated very softly, averting her eyes towards the misty-topped trees in the distance. "I would rather understand and respect her than fear her."

It was at that moment that he understood that he had been the one snared that day; he was hopelessly smitten, irretrievably in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading! If you are enjoying this story, please leave me a little comment or review so I won't feel mopey... ;-)


	4. A Simple Contract Revisted

"Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides."  
― André Malraux

* * *

It was already dark when Geralt had the nagging impression he was walking in circles. He glanced towards the trees and recognized a familiar pattern in the clearing.

_I've already walked by this place. Several times._

Something was nor right. He had followed a trail of scent and tracks that led him deeper into the forest. At one point he had found a tuft of fur snagged on a tall branch.

 _Too high up for any ordinary wolf_ , he frowned, pocketing the dark colored fur.

The fourth time he passed the same clearing, he stopped. He was missing something, and try as he might, his senses were not revealing what it was. Still, he was aware there was the top of that hillock was unusual. He cast Aard and found that instead of simply bursting through the bushes and clumps of dry leaves and fading out, the explosive sign appeared to ricochet off an invisible barrier.

_Hm. An illusion._

He cast the Sign once more and observed the same phenomenon.

Without further ado, he reached into his satchel and pulled out Nehaleni's Eye.

 _This better work without your sorcery, Keira_ , he thought, rubbing his gloved fingers over the rough indentations on the carved stone, raising it towards the clearing.

The air wavered and shimmered as if were steaming off the road on a hot day.

 _A spell of concealment_? Geralt puzzled. _Here? In the middle of nowhere_? _This isn't even a ruin._ He remained still and allowed the amulet to unveil a small shack propped up over the edge of the hillock

 _What did I think yesterday? Straightforward case? Right._ He smirked, shaking his head.

The shack was simple but far from being poorly kept. A large pelt stretched over one of the front walls and a spear had been propped up against the side of the shack. A thin spiral of smoke rose from the chimney.

 _Someone's home. Let's see who doesn't want to be disturbed_.

He approached the entryway silently, realizing that the tracks he'd been following through the forest earlier circled around the shelter and down the rocky back of the hillock. His thoughts were interrupted by a faint sound coming from inside the shack.

Someone was singing very softly, a hushed, lilting melody.

Geralt heaved a deep sigh of relief. He curled his fingers into a loose fist and rapped against the door.

"Hanna: open up. I've come to help you."

* * *

The singing stopped and Geralt attempted to peer into the room through one of the cracks on the door jamb. He could barely make out the fire in the small cooking hearth. He wasn't ready to second guess himself yet, even though the door did not budge.

_Let's try this again._

"My name is Geralt of Rivia. I'm a Witcher and your husband hired me to find you. I'm here to bring you home," he added calmly.

To his surprise, the latch on the door popped up and he found himself before a woman with luminous brown eyes and long, disheveled golden hair. She blinked at him curiously and for a moment Geralt allowed himself to stare at her delicate features, the bow-shaped lips, fair skin. She was lovely—she possessed a natural, unassuming beauty. She was probably unaware of her charms…something he found only made her more appealing…

"Niellen sent you? Is he all right?" she asked apprehensively, stirring him out of his brief reverie.

Further inspection revealed deep gashes raked into the back of her hands and arms. He noticed, once she stepped aside to allow him inside, that she had secured a wad of folded rags to the side of her neck. She appeared a little unsteady and he realized some of that ethereal gleam from her dark eyes was due in part to the raging fever she seemed to be running.

"Sit down," Geralt ordered her, reaching into his satchel again for a vial of medicine. "Is there any water I can mix this in?..." he wondered, gazing around the room. The space was small and wooden pallets dividers separated the space into distinct areas. On one side of the shack he found a table with various tools for hunting, field dressing, and even a few for fletching. An unfinished arrow lay beside two spotted brown feathers. Another thick bear pelt lined the wall, stretched out tautly, and there were other small signs that the cottage was well inhabited: a crate with root vegetables, a couple bottles of wine, a simple rack where a pair of worn boots had been left, muddy and stained. Behind the wooden slats in another corner he could see a makeshift bed: a large door had been propped over bricks and topped with some blankets and a pillow. He found a large jug by the hearth and peered in.

"There is a little water left in the pitcher on the bedside table," she uttered weakly, shivering. "I am trying to ration it until—"

"Here," Geralt pulled out his own canteen and shook the entire contents of vial into it. "Drink as much as you can."

"Thank you," she replied, her long lashes concealing her downcast eyes.

"It acts quickly," he explained, sitting across from her. It was one of the few mixtures in his arsenal of potions and oils that wouldn't have an adverse, toxic effect on a normal physiology. "How long have you been here?" he wondered.

"I don't know," she replied sincerely. "I chanced upon this place and gained entrance using the ladder in the cave."

"Cave?" Geralt asked as he leaned towards her, his eyes narrowing.

"Beneath the house there is a cave. I do not know how far or deep it goes, but once inside, close to the entrance there was a ladder leaning on the rocks and it led to that trapdoor." She indicated the general direction in the room by jutting her chin towards it. "I climbed up and then…I don't know. Everything has been a haze," she admitted feebly.

 _A cave. Great._ He was getting a very bad feeling in his gut.

"How long have I been missing?" she asked, reviving somewhat after almost emptying his canteen.

"Five days," Geralt revealed.

Her hand flew up to her mouth.

Without a further word, she rushed to the window and peered out into the sky.

"Master Witcher, you must go!" she told him anxiously.

"But I just got here," he reasoned.

"No, no! You have to. Please!" she implored, growing more and more agitated as she glanced uneasily at the door.

"When I leave, I'm bringing you with me, and tonight you are in no condition to—"

"Please!" she repeated, her eyes closed. "I will be all right for one more night. But you cannot tarry here!"

"Why not?" Geralt wondered suspiciously.

"I thank you for your kindness, but all of this has been a misunderstanding. Now you must go," she stated firmly.

"I'm not going anywhere," Geralt announced. He folded his arms behind his head and tilted his chair back.

Hanna stood by the door, wringing her hands , a pained look on her face.

"I think I know what is happening here," he told her sternly. "And I can tell you right now: you are being a damned fool." He pointed at her neck. "You're lucky you got away."

Hanna had grown very still.

"It was...I got lost...And the wolves—"

Geralt shook his head.

"Don't waste my time. Wolves didn't do this to you."

Hanna looked down at her feet.

"This is Niellen's hunting shelter, isn't it? That would explain why you were able to gain entrance despite the spell of concealment and—"

Hanna appeared surprise.

"Spell? What spell? I was running and followed the trail to the house. It was locked, so I kept searching for a way in, went around the back and entered through the cave. I spent a night down there, in complete darkness, with wolves assailing the door until I found the ladder and trapdoor I told you about," she protested. "There was no spell!"

"Had you ever been here before?" he puzzled.

"No," she replied. "Never. I didn't realize this was where he came on his hunting outings until I noticed the boots on the rack," she explained. "And I recognized some of his tools laid out on his workbench."

"Did you know?" Geralt finally asked. "Did he tell you or did you find out?"

Hanna said nothing.

He sighed heavily.

"I cannot let him do this anymore," he explained in a gentler tone. "It is an unfortunate curse, but it doesn't change the fact your husband becomes a ruthless killer. He almost killed _you_. He has no recollection whatsoever of what he almost did: he is miserable, back in the village right now wondering what happened to you, completely unaware that he is the reason you are missing. Do you think he would be able to live with himself if he had succeeded and learned what he had done?"

As if on cue, the wolves began their plaintive howling nearby.

"What are you going to do?" Hanna asked nervously.

"I think you know what I need to do. In the end, it's a kindness to put him out of this misery, Hanna."

She squeezed her eyes shut again, fighting back the flood of tears.

"Please, Master Witcher. Don't hurt Niellen."

"When Niellen transforms into that beast, he is gone," Geralt argued. "All that is left is the monster. A monster that has killed before and will kill again and will keep killing until he dies. Why would you ever want to protect him after what he did to you? Most people who have a run-in with a werewolf don't live to tell the tale. You were lucky, Hanna. Very fortunate to get away."

"I didn't get away," she retorted, a defiant expression in her eyes.

Geralt tilted his head.

"What do you mean?"

"What I just said: I did not escape the werewolf."

She wasn't making any sense.

"Hanna," he began patiently.

"No: you don't understand. I am trying to tell you something. Something important. I did not escape the werewolf: _he let me go_ ," she declared quietly.

Geralt grimaced and rubbed his face. A werewolf with a _conscience_? That definitely complicated matters. He wondered what Vesemir would have to say about that.

 _A straightforward contract,_ he taunted himself again. _Ha!_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you to the kind people on both FF and AO3 who took pity on me and left me reviews/faves/kudos/follows and all that good stuff! It's so nice to receive a sign of appreciation. *Thanks!*


	5. Past

**Chapter 5: Past**

_"When your memory finds me, you still feel like home."_

– Chrissy Stockton, "Aurora Borealis"

* * *

Niellen stopped before the trail he had examined so many times before since Hanna's disappearance. The dirt yielded nothing new, except for the more recent tracks that gradually effaced old ones. His nostrils flared in the darkness as he forged through the forest, always searching. At one point he came upon a clearing, standing over scorched grass. As he examined the area, he saw that what he'd initially thought of as some kind of fire pit was actually holding burned remains. His fingers sieved through ashes, fragments of bone and teeth. Even as his fingers trembled slightly, wiping the dust against his leg, the wilderness tugged at him, distracting him. On the three nights when the moon reached its fullest, he had no choice: the curse overcame him, dragging him into that oblivious savagery…But on the other nights, he could surrender at will.

He was sorely tempted to allow his baser self to overtake him, to spare him from his suffering. In that state he remembered less and less. There would be no sadness, no misery. It would be a blessed respite.

No guilt, no remorse, no grief.

No pain over losing Hanna.

* * *

_A festival,_ Niellen reminisced.

 _It was Lammas_.

Wheat stalks had been bunched and tacked over the doors of cottages. The odor of baked bread permeated the village. It was a reprieve from the unavoidable: war loomed. The village's future was uncertain. Rumors that they would be ordered to evacuate the village before the end of the season swirled in the air, as incendiary as a rash of bright sparks bursting from crackling firewood. Niellen wandered into the village from the forest, passing ruddy faced men who drank to anything they could fete. They'd hoist their tankards into the air and, before issuing their toasts, collapsed in raucous laughter. He was cautious and wary, ever aware of the moon's summons. He could sense the worst days would be befalling him soon, but until they claimed him into that cursed state, he would walk tall among the men, women, and children in the town, as if he were one of them.

As if he belonged.

Margaret, earlier that day, had urged him to go, to partake in the festivities.

"Will you be there as well?" he'd boldly asked Hanna. She had nodded demurely.

That night, as he made his way towards the main square, he returned polite greetings, head nods and inquisitive stares as he passed doorways. The acrid odor of ale and piss wafted from the darker corners of the market square. His sharp eyes searched past the crowds of drunken men, huddled women conversing bawdily, and maidens making eyes at the bashful lads across the way. When he finally glimpsed Hanna, he found her sitting by a bonfire, alone. Margaret, mercifully, was off cavorting, nowhere in sight.

His footsteps picked up speed and she raised her eyes at him as he approached her.

* * *

They strolled through the streets speaking in quiet tones. When they'd walked up to the village gate, she had stared longingly towards the winding path.

"I would like to see it sometime," she tilted her head towards the untamed forest. "We are not allowed to wander in these woods," she told him.

"You shouldn't," he concurred. "Not alone. There are dangers you cannot imagine lurking within."

"Are you ever afraid?" she asked.

"No," he replied earnestly. "I know my way. And I know how to defend myself."

"Are you one of those dangers, perhaps?" she asked in a lighter tone, her lips parting into a smile. "I believe all the game you brought in would argue you are."

He said nothing and stared ahead, pensively.

"Would you like to see it?" he asked suddenly.

"What? Now?" she questioned, bewildered.

He crossed the gate and extended his hand to her.

"Come," he invited her.

"Isn't it dangerous?" she wondered, drawing her shawl tighter.

"It is," he told her. "But with me you will always be safe."

She pondered his words before finally grasping his hand.

* * *

They walked through the woods, her hand firmly in his as he guided her to an overlook from which they could view the valley. He stole glances at her serene profile as she surveyed the landscape—the village below was ablaze in pinpoints light.

"It is so beautiful," she smiled. Her smile faded soon enough though, as her eyes caught other, more distant points of light.

Troops had begun settling their camps only a few miles away. The light of their campfires concentrated further north, by the river.

She shuddered.

"There is so little to look forward to," she lamented. "Hard times are nigh."

He listened to her wordlessly.

"Come with me again tomorrow," he asked.

"I can't," she stated sadly. "Tonight is the festival…but tomorrow everything is back to normal."

"Come with me," he pleaded. "I will take you to see a lake where forest creatures meet at night and play in the moonlight," he tempted her.

"How?" she puzzled helplessly. "I cannot leave—My father..." she reasoned.

"Please," he implored.

Her brow furrowed slightly and she said nothing to him. He waited in sweet agony for her to reply.

"I may be able to slip out the window in the pantry," she told him at last, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

* * *

One walk led to another, every night for almost a week.

But their meetings were abruptly interrupted on the three nights the moon was at its fullest. On those, he had not appeared.

She told him later on that she had waited by the small pantry window, expecting to see him emerge from the darkness, the hour growing late as she stubbornly clung to her conviction that he would come, after all.

But he hadn't. After that first night she had searched the market for him, for a sign, but he was nowhere to be found.

"Do you think he would simply pick up and leave without saying goodbye?" Margaret wondered glumly. Hanna said nothing.

When he did not appear the second night, she gave in and wept.

On the third night, she held her lonely vigil once again, her heart broken. She peered into the darkness despondently, but found herself unable to close the window against the night.

On the fourth night she did not know why she still stole away to the pantry, flinging the window open, except that not doing so was to accept something far more painful. Every moment contained hope and possibility: hope and possibility she was not ready to surrender yet. Every rational thought told her she was being pathetic to cling to a delusion that way, but she preferred her comforting thoughts of the dark haired hunter with eyes the color of the sky.

So when his solitary figure reappeared under the pale moonlight before her once more, she rushed across her father's field as quickly as her legs could carry her and flung her arms around his neck tightly.

He soothed her with kisses over her tear-stained face.

"I am sorry," he repeated, again and again, truly remorseful for causing her so much grief.

"Don't ever leave me," she begged, balling her hand into a fist over his chest.

That night he led her to a glen and laid his cloak over a field lush with wildflowers and glimmering fireflies. With only the starry sky as their witness, they lay together for the first time. He understood, as he held her against him, with a certainty that was terrifying, that he would never let her go.

Later, when he took Hanna's hand in his to walk her back to her house, he reassured her tenderly:

"In the morning I will speak to your father."


	6. Lost

"The thorn from the bush one has planted, nourished and pruned pricks more deeply and draws more blood."

 _-_ Maya Angelou

* * *

Geralt stood before the fire, his eyes a deep amber in the firelight, his arms crossed.

"What do you mean he let you _go_?"

"I will tell you what happened," Hanna agreed, pulling out a chair.

* * *

Margaret had been acting oddly. She had taken to asking constantly about when Niellen would be going on one of his overnight hunting outings—something that deeply irked Hanna, for she hated it when he was away. It was true that she had her sister to keep her company during the long nights he was away, but Margaret was not pleasant company. When alone with her, Margaret tended to sulk and perform her chores with a sullen expression. Anytime Niellen was around, however, she bloomed into an affable person Hanna did not recognize.

Hanna resented her father for foisting Margaret on her and Niellen just when they were about to begin their lives together. It had been one of the terms he'd insisted on when Niellen asked to marry her.

"Why not Novigrad ?" Hanna proposed. "She'll be better off in the city." There they had relatives who would take her in.

"Blackbough is far and out of the way: it is a small, rural village," Niellen tried to persuade the old man. "I don't imagine there would be much excitement there for her."

"Good. Because I'm not looking for her to be entertained. I am looking for her to be safe. I don't want her anywhere near the farm here. Once the soldiers begin crossing these fields... I've known enough war to know what happens. You know the saying: in times of trouble one should hide his gold, his wine, and his women. So here we are," her father insisted. "Margaret must go with you."

Hanna peered at her quiet sister who said nothing, one way or another, to make her predilection apparent.

"Margaret! You don't want to come with us, do you? Wouldn't you prefer to stay in Novigrad?" she still tried, hopefully.

Her sister wore a calculatedly innocent expression.

"No. I wish to go to Blackbough," she declared.

Their father clapped his hands.

"Then it is decided!"

Hanna cast Niellen an apologetic look. He faced her placidly, though, always reassuringly. It would be fine, she decided. It was a temporary arrangement. Once things quieted down again, Margaret would return to the farm. She understood that Margaret was acting out of spite. She wasn't daft: she knew her sister had fancied Niellen…But surely, she had to have understood that the feelings were not reciprocated…She had taken Margaret's initial silence, when Niellen expressed his desire to marry her, as that of a willful child's whose wishes had been thwarted. It was merely a case of hurt pride, just the usual rivalry between siblings, she thought. Once the next handsome lad crossed her path, all would be forgotten.

When Hanna turned to look at her sister, she found her gazing at her with a strange intensity.

If she hadn't known any better, she would have gone as far as saying that it was hate.

* * *

"You need to come with me right now," Margaret demanded once Niellen had left for the night. She had a wild-eyed look when she burst through the door. She had been breathless, her face flushed, and she was barely coherent. Hanna had noticed a sprig of greenery tangled in her hair. For a fleeting moment she imagined that perhaps Margaret was meeting clandestinely with some young man in the village. Maybe one of the farmer's sons. Hanna hoped it was the case. It would explain why Margaret occasionally disappeared anytime Niellen was away.

"Where are we going?" Hanna asked as both women stepped out into the twilight, cloaks draped over their shoulders as a light mist fell over the village. The flagstones leading from her cottage towards the dirt path were slick and shiny.

"There is something you need to see," Margaret insisted, glancing back at her often to ensure that she was still following her.

Hanna followed, intrigued, but was overcome by an uneasy feeling when Margaret led them past the village gates, off the path, and towards the dark, foreboding forest.

"Margaret!" she called out sharply. "We shouldn't wander into the forest!"

Margaret ignored her and continued her descent farther and farther from the main road.

"Margaret!" Hanna shouted, as if issuing a command.

Niellen had begged her not to enter the forest without him. Determined to ensure she would not be tempted to dismiss his one request of her, he often brought her gifts from the forest after his outings: freshly plucked berries, an assortment of mushrooms, bunches of wild flowers, combs of honey, and once, an abandoned nest with the empty shells of two little blue eggs. She hesitated, teetering between the road and the overgrown brush beyond it until she saw Margaret's silhouette faintly outlined in the early dusk. She was filled with dread for her sister—she couldn't abandon her there, all alone.

Margaret led her through the trees, wandering over rocks and rotted wood, dry leaves underfoot, and faded trails.

"What are you doing?" Hanna scolded her as they wandered further into the dense wood. When her sister didn't answer, Hanna turned around. "We are going back. This is reckless."

"There's something you should know…It's 'bout Niellen," Margaret announced.

Hanna whirled around.

"What about Niellen?" Her brow furrowed.

Margaret signaled.

"Come," she murmured, forging ahead.

"We shouldn't be here."

It wasn't until they had reached a clearing in the forest, the last rays of light quickly fading in the horizon, that Margaret turned to her, a savage gleam in her eyes.

"How well do you think you know the man you've wed?" she asked.

Hanna's heart pounded.

"Why do you ask?"

"Do you have what it takes to love him like he deserves?" she wondered, an ominous tone in her voice. "Love him heart and _soul_."

Hanna bristled.

"What are you talking about?"

Her sister stepped forth, and cupping her hands to her mouth, let out a howl. It was a dreadful sound and Hanna startled.

"Margaret!" She gestured for her to quiet down. "What are you doing?"

Margaret was oblivious to her fretting. Instead, she let out another howl, high pitched and bone chilling.

Hanna had had enough. She seized her sister's arm roughly and yanked her towards the way they'd come from.

"Have you gone mad?"

But she resisted, wresting herself free, looking towards the vast darkness ahead of them. They tussled briefly, Hanna frantically trying to grip her sister, eager to head back to the safety of the village.

And then it came: the forest erupted with howls from what seemed to be every direction.

Hanna's eyes grew large with alarm, and she stepped back. One glance at Margaret and she saw the excited grin on her face.

"Goodbye, sister," Margaret murmured, hurriedly stepping outside the clearing, quickly disappearing into the gloomy woods.

"Wait! Margaret! We should stay together! It's dangerous!" she cried out, her eyes trailing after the fading figure.

A chorus of howls gradually approached and began to close in on her as she turned from side to side, unsure as to what way they had taken there—she had been so preoccupied about not leaving her sister's side and following her, that she hadn't paid attention to their trajectory.

She cried out when she saw a dark shadow dash between the trees in front of her. Behind her, the brush rustled loudly. She grabbed a large broken branch off the ground and wielded it up defensively.

All around her.

They had encircled her. She heard low growls and caught the flicker of dark eyes peering out from the shadows that encroached upon her.

One of the wolves sprung forth and snagged the end of her cloak, almost tugging it off her. Hanna screamed and backed away from her attacker.

A deeper, guttural growl from behind startled her and she turned to find herself face-to-face with a dark muzzle and two fierce eyes appraising her.

 _This is no wolf_ , she understood even in her terrified state. She frantically began to swing the branch at the beast only to have it crack over its shoulder. The next thing she saw was a large, deformed hand, talons aimed at her face. She raised her hands protectively.

 _Razor sharp_ , she grimaced as they raked her skin, tearing her flesh. Before she could react, the creature tackled her to the ground, its teeth gnashing dangerously close to her jugular.

 _I am going to die_ , Hanna realized suddenly, even as she struggled against the monster pinning her to the ground.

It was at that moment that something round flashed before her eyes as she fought off her attacker.

 _Melitele_.

The large medallion of Melitele caught her attention. Even between her raised arms she recognized the thin string of rawhide tied around the werewolf's neck. She would have known it anywhere: it was Niellen's, a gift from her at their wedding, her wish that the Good Mother would keep him safe from peril. As she struggled beneath the weight of the body crushing her into the ground, pushing desperately against him, her hand found the outline of another familiar landmark: a raised scar, in the same place she had learned to find it, on his shoulder.

She blinked slowly, her eyes tearing up as the realization overcame her. She turned her head, moving it away just in time from the sharp teeth aiming for her neck.

_Werewolf._

_Do you have what it takes to love him?_ Margaret's taunt echoed in her head. That's what she had wanted her to see. If the discovery failed to shatter her, the beast would.

She stopped fighting; her arms gave way and before the monster recovered from his missed attack, she reached up and clung to him. Startled, he began to thrash, his claws slashing over the hands that grasped him decisively, relentless. She bore his angry attempts to wrest himself free, and as he tried to shake her off, she drew closer, burying her face in his chest. She had stained some of his fur with her blood.

Of all the dangers he had warned him about, she never imagined the greatest one of all would be the man she loved. She remembered his words to her that first night he took her into the woods, his hands rough, but tender and protective.

_With me you will always be safe…_

His fur was coarse and prickly against her tear stained cheek.

"Niellen!" she whispered, heartbroken.

With that she released him only to find him strangely still, his gaze confused and wary. Out of the corner of her eyes she noticed another wolf nearby pacing impatiently. It finally broke into the clearing and lunged for her.

She shut her eyes, bracing herself for the killing blow.

Instead, she heard an aggressive growl followed by a piercing, pitiful yelp. When she opened her eyes she saw that the werewolf had risen to its full height, frightfully menacing, shielding her from the prowling wolves. The chastised wolf scurried off and one by one the others retreated under the monster's warning glare.

When he finally turned her attention back to her, the wolves began to howl ominously in the background.

"Niellen," she repeated, trying to stand up.

The beast dropped into a low crouch and sniffed the air in her direction.

"You say my name," a raspy growl of a voice spoke to her, "but you do not know me."

He then turned away without another word and ran into the bleak darkness.

* * *

When he bolted into the forest, Hanna followed. As long as she managed to stay close behind, the wolves remained at a distance. As the gap between them broadened, though, she found herself gradually flanked by the wolves on both sides.

She ran aimlessly, her feet snagging over the roots of trees, sending her tumbling into the ground. Each time she sprung up immediately, determined to escape.

When she finally came upon the small shack on the hillock, she could feel her limbs ache, eager to surrender. She weathered the brief panic upon discovering the doors and windows locked, until she circled the shack and uncovered the cave door behind and at the bottom of the hillock. It was open and she hastily entered the cave, leaned against the rock wall inside—the sound of water trickling from an unnerving depth beyond her, and the heavy wooden door rattling from the wolves lunging at it ferociously for the rest of the night. At one point, exhaustion claimed her. Her back dragged down the wall and she pitched to the side. Her cheek smacked the damp, muddy ground, as her sight clouded and darkened.

* * *

Geralt listened to Hanna recount what had happened, a grave, troubled look on his face.

There was nothing he wanted more than to find the beast and end its existence with a deft slash of his silver blade. Werewolves were cursed, wild and dangerous, disconnected from their human forms and existences as if they were a separate entities, acting malevolently and predatorily. Despite having a human side, such beings could not be spared: the savage aspect demanded it.

He had known werewolves to speak before-that aspect of her story had not unsettled him. Hell, he had even brokered a deal with one once, helping it break its curse. He was struck by the irony of that particular encounter: he'd aided the werewolf to break his curse only to kill the restored man afterwards. From everything he saw, the man had been more monstrous than the monster.

_Vesemir, I could really use your advice right now. A werewolf has spared the life of his human wife._

_Why?_

In the answer to that lay the crux of his problem. In the answer there was a possibility he couldn't ignore. And for that unlikely twist alone, his silver sword would have to remain sheathed. He sighed impatiently.

"So what's your plan?" Geralt asked after a long silence. "You realize this is his lair. This is where he retreats and waits out his transformation. You know he will be back."

Hanna furrowed her brow.

"Tomorrow he will undoubtedly return," he explained. "For three nights, when the moon is full, he will not be able to fight the curse anymore."

"What can you tell me, Witcher? What can I do to help him?" She searched the serious, guarded face.

" _Help_ him? You survived once. You willing to tempt fate again?"

"I made a vow—"

"You made the _man_ a vow," Geralt interrupted, lest she harbor any delusions about the nature of the werewolf. "Not the monster. You did not even know—"

"That monster spared my life. Somehow, he understood," she persisted.

Geralt fell silent.

"Please, Witcher. If there is a way to help him—"

He peered at the young woman, at the plaintive look in her eyes, and he was overcome by sadness.

"Niellen and the werewolf are one only in their instinct to survive. He knows well the beast he harbors within." Geralt indicated the well-stocked shack, a perfect hideaway protected from intruders. "He allows the beast freedom to prowl…and kill. He has painstakingly created a haven to conceal him. What man can do such a thing in good conscience? He is cursed, Hanna. The nature of the werewolf corrupts the man."

Hanna eyes flashed excitedly as his words.

"If the nature of the beast affects the man…then perhaps the nature of the man can redeem the beast!"

Geralt blinked at Hanna for a few moments confoundedly before snorting lightly.

"This isn't a philosophical debate. That is not how things work. I'll explain it one more time: werewolves are violent and murderous. They are predators and we are their prey."

"I know what I saw. Something-an understanding- passed between the beast and I," she continued in a tentative voice.

"It was not a full moon," Geralt warned. "He may have been in greater possession of his faculties. Perhaps the ties between both beings were stronger. I doubt you would be as fortunate on a full moon."

At her despondent look he couldn't help himself. "How can you love him knowing what he is?"

"How can we hate that which we do not understand?" she countered. "Such a careless manner of thinking has led to this…" she stated passionately. "To all the evils between people…all war and cruelty. If you wish to kill Niellen for his deeds, I trust you will also be seeking out the men who plunder and rape during wartime? Are they any less monstrous?" she challenged him.

Geralt heaved a heavy sigh. He knew there was no winning that argument, not with her in that state. Still, her willingness to show compassion for the cursed man and her determination to stop him from killing the werewolf…There was something moving about her stance. _How can we hate that which we do not understand?_ How often had he thought something similar, as folk spat in his wake as he passed, calling him a freak and a monster, as well.

They did not know him. They were satisfied with their ignorance and fear, he'd concluded on many occasions.

 _How can you love him?_ he'd brazenly asked her.

He looked up at her contritely. How many times had Yen been asked the same thing?

It sure as hell wasn't his usual way of handling such matters, but then again, he'd never been embroiled in matters as odd as those regarding that particular contract.

"All right," Geralt nodded. "Tell me what you have in mind and I will help you however I can," he offered resignedly.

* * *

"You realize you are up against some bad odds," he told her. "If this were a game of Gwent, I'd suggest you forfeit and count your losses." Shadows flickered against the walls of the shack as the fire blazed from the hearth. "I do not know how you will get him to stop killing indiscriminately—"

"We could argue that I already have," she replied pointedly.

Geralt couldn't help a small grin. Stubborn, obstinate, and so damn confident, even in the face of a dire situation.

 _Who does that sound like?_ he remembered, with a tug to his heart.

"You are placing too much stock on my never having seen a werewolf behave this way. While that gives you hope, it should also give you pause: I have no idea of how he will act. He's not following any familiar pattern. What makes you so sure he won't be angry when he sees you and decides to finish what he began in the forest?"

"Because he's Niellen, deep inside."

Geralt rubbed his cheek tiredly.

"We've been over this."

"He remembered, Master Witcher. Somehow, in the middle of his bloodlust, he remembered that I…" Her vision blurred from the tears. "Was of significance to him."

"Let me think," he stated, leaning back in his chair. He had fought many werewolves and they had never failed to be formidable foes. They possessed the worse of both beings: the wolf's fierceness and hunting prowess and man's cunning and cruelty. Some were more animal-like, cut off from their human halves completely, even running on all fours, dragging their knuckles over the dirt. Others were more treacherous, rising on their powerful legs to intimidating heights and speaking—to deceive, to bargain, to threaten…sometimes all three. The way he saw it, there was little he could offer Hanna. If Niellan had fallen into such a well-ordered routine, even going as far as securing a safe place for when he shapeshifted, then it was likely that the curse had taken its hold a long time ago...Perhaps he had even born into such misfortune. There was no lifting of such a deep-rooted curse at that point. The more he pondered it, the more he came to the grim conclusion there would be no happy resolution to the problem.

The werewolf had to die.

He raised his golden eyes to the young woman who sat before him, hopeful and determined. He steeled himself to deliver the unwanted news...

Except for a nagging thought, at the back of his mind. He was forgetting something. Something Vesemir had told them once, over a long winter night.

 _Benandanti_ , he remembered suddenly. That's what they had called them in Toussaint. _Benandanti…what had Vesemir said?_ _An old case…The—something or other, damnit!...What was it again?... Theobald!_ He slapped the edge of the table lightly, startling Hanna. _No,_ his brow furrowed. _Not Theobald. Something else…Think_! He closed his eyes. _Thee_ … _Thiess of Valtenbrun! He had spoken of shapeshifters who protected folk, their crops, and herds from harm. What had he said? 'Beast and Man are one and the same, all children of Melitele. To serve the goddess, their natures join.' There were tales, weren't there? An old order…a sect. Wolves, stags, bears…Guardians of the forest. Somehow the different natures aligned…Or perhaps remembered each other?_ He wasn't sure. Vesemir had mentioned the case back then with interest, but none of the assembled Witchers listening to his story could recall anything but werewolves who tried to bury their teeth in their necks.

"Hanna, there may be a way…It's unlikely…Might not lead to anything…But I remembered an interesting contract a fellow Witcher came across many years ago. If Niellen and the Beast somehow remember each other..."

Hanna leaned in closer, ready to listen.

* * *

Later on, Geralt noticed it had grown late. If he was going to follow through with his promise to Hanna, he needed to return to the stood up and began to head towards the door. Another thought weighed on his mind as he prepared to depart.

"There is something that needs to be addressed."

"What is that?"

"Your sister."

The pained expression that crossed Hanna's eyes did not go unnoticed.

"She has expressed no remorse, no desire to find you…In fact, she wanted to pay me to settle the contract and declare you dead." He stood uncomfortably at the threshold. "Sorry to tell you that."

Hanna did not respond. She nodded wanly.

"I do not think there is much to salvage between us."

He gritted his teeth at the thought of returning to the village and facing the scheming sister. She would probably ask him if he'd had any success finding Hanna and he would have to lie. He would have to look her in the face and pretend he did not know that she had dragged her sister into the woods to die all alone, torn to shreds by her own husband because she coveted what was not hers. He'd have to turn and walk away while the traitorous woman remained safe and warm in her sister's home.

"There's something I want you to do," Geralt decided. He peered down at the table where he had laid down the silver dagger he'd entreated she keep upon her at all times. He plunked down his satchel and began rummaging through it.

"Damn! I always have some parchment on me!" he complained. He always carried some folded away contract or a note he found amusing from one of the notice boards he crossed in various towns. This time, he found nothing.

"Parchment?" Hanna gazed around the small shack. They stood at a loss, both of them, until she seized upon a thought and pat her skirt pocket. She tugged out a small wad of parchment folded down into a bulky square. "You may use this," she offered, handing him what appeared to be a letter. "It is from our father."

"This is ideal." Geralt nodded, unfolding it and flattening it out over the table. "Now for something to write with…Do you know how to write?"

Hanna hesitated.

"Some…A little…Not well, I'm afraid."

"Come here," he invited her.

She approached him, staring down at the back of her father's letter.

"I need you to write something down for me," he explained.

"But we have no ink." She grimaced.

"We do. Show me your finger."

He took the silver dagger and unsheathed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: 1) The other talking werewolf I am alluding to is Morkvarg, who was cursed after perpetrating terrible acts. 2) Benandanti werewolves were an actual folk legend in parts of Italy. Benandanti means "Good Walkers" and they were believed to be men who shapeshifted into werewolves to fight evil witches, protect fields of crops, and even had healing powers. Thiess of Valtenbrun is a play on Thiess of Kaltenbrun, an actual historical figure who during his trial for heresy admitted to being a werewolf, a 'benandante' of sorts who battled demons in hell. I can appropriate a little folklore, right? Sapkowski does it all the time... ;-)


	7. Strangers

"Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell."  
― Edna St. Vincent Millay

* * *

It hurt.

The pain radiated from Niellen's bones. Everything was taut, as if contracting, growing smaller, but he understood that the pain was manifest because he was doing the opposite: expanding. It was a slow, gradual process and he would drag himself, writhe on the ground, as if poisoned, as if mortally wounded. The agony rendered him breathless as his face contorted and his shoulders rolled forward. His breaths grew shallower and soon morphed into heavy pants, interrupted by grunts and low growls. His fur emerged—most of it on his head and muzzle— black and silvery over the back of his arms and legs. His tongue grazed the smooth, sharp fangs, and his fists unclenched into long, clawed hands.

He shed his clothes, all left scattered over dry leaves on the forest ground before he transformed: he hadn't been able to hunt and stock his lair, as he had always done, since Hanna's disappearance. It was reckless of him to trust the beast to fend for itself, especially since the bond between them had become so tenuous, but he was unraveling, slowly puzzling at why he needed to take so many precautions since Hanna was gone. He hoped to awaken in the cave beneath his forest shack so he would not have to wander the forest at dawn, shivering, damp, and naked, searching for his belongings. The one thing he never removed, though, was the medallion of Melitele Hanna had given him.

Hanna couldn't have known, didn't know, and he wouldn't ever tell her, but he prized the medallion for reasons she couldn't fathom, for the inadvertent comfort it provided. It wasn't just because Melitele was the Great Mother, patroness and protector of the forest. It was because the goddess was Maiden, Mother, and Crone. If anyone else could understand the strange harmony of incorporating opposites, it was the goddess with three avataras.

That night, as the familiar pain wracked his body, as his shape morphed, he surrendered fully. The moonlight curse seared his flesh, made his darkening eyes burn and tear as it coursed sharply through his veins.

But even that well-worn agony did not suffice, could not quell the hollow in his chest.

* * *

The werewolf stood on his powerful hind legs, seeking to discern movement and sound, his black, leathery nose sniffing the air.

The beast was at last free and in control, but for reasons he did not grasp, his first act that night was a melancholy howl at the cold stars.

The sound cut through the quietude of the woods.

* * *

Geralt turned, pausing as he heard the eerie howling deeper into the forest. He instinctively reached for the pommel of his silver blade, but took a deep breath and tore his gaze away from the beckoning woods and back towards the winding trail that lead back to the village. Night had fallen over the rooftops and grey smoke unfurled towards the sky. He wanted to check on Roach and settle in for the night. And he was counting on sleeping well that night. Right after he stopped in at Niellen's house.

Just as he crossed the village gate, another howl carried back to him faintly. From his elevated vantage point he could peer over parts of the forest and he glanced towards the approximate direction the little shack in the woods sat. He was assailed by a pang of worry.

_I hope Hanna comes out of this unhurt…Hell: I hope she comes out of this alive._

* * *

Once the Witcher left, Hanna had to admit her courage had waned a bit. Her mind was clearer than it had been in days, probably because of the medicine he'd given her. Her cuts, though, were still fresh, brilliantly red against her flesh. She could see her pulse against the skin of her neck as she examined the wound.

She recalled the violence of the attack and for a moment thought that perhaps it was just as the Witcher had said: a foolish decision. What did she know about monsters and creatures and other such things? Who was she to contradict a Master Witcher? Her folk had believed in the mischief and blessings of bucca, brownies, lutin. She knew better than to wander along the riverbed in its most desolate stretches. Her life had circled around such warnings and precautions precisely to avoid such encounters.

She would have up until the night after the full moon.

"Four nights," the Witcher had explained. Four nights to prove that Niellen could remember—to prove that he could control the animal inside him.

She braced herself as the air grew colder. The shack had surprised her with its simple comforts. Niellen had stacked firewood—enough for several cold nights—along one of the cottage walls. The makeshift bed was warm—she had folded the blankets neatly at the foot of the bed. A broom leaned against one of the walls at the entrance, and she had occupied herself with sweeping the floorboards earlier. The repetitive motion of sweeping had reminded her of the first time she crossed the threshold into their home. She would never forget stepping into the small, gloomy cottage, chairs stacked over each other in a corner, a thick layer of dust covering…everything.

"What!" she had scolded him playfully when he had returned after her first day alone at the cottage. She had scoured all the rooms, dumping the grey water from the bucket she'd been rinsing her cleaning rags in all day. "You wanted a wife or a maid?"

She remembered warmly how he had shut the door behind them and then approached her, seizing the broom from her hand and guiding her back up against the door. He'd pushed his hips into hers provocatively while his hands hoisted up the hem of her dress, his fingers grazing her legs and lingering temptingly over her bared thighs.

"If I were your master, I'd be a rascal at that, for I would want to have my way with you all the time," he'd whispered roguishly in her ear before kissing her neck.

"Shame on you then, for I'd still demand my wages even if nothing ever got done," she'd teased back.

She glanced around the room right then, catching vestiges of that veiled existence he led: how he occupied himself during the days, his tools scattered over the table, the bear skins left to properly dry. She wondered what he thought of in the solace of that small shack. She did not want to think about what happened in the darkness of that cave as she shooed away the unpleasant memories of the damp ground, the cold radiating from the rock as she hid on that first night. She stared at the trapdoor, locked since the night she'd arrived.

_You must open it._

She fought a fearful lethargy.

_Open it._

Hanna approached it and sat down on the floor, gingerly, indecisively brushing her fingertips over the latches.

* * *

The moon shone behind clouds, illuminating the night sky as if behind a smoky frieze. The werewolf rushed through the woods, headed for the place where he could rest safely, remain concealed. He paid little heed to the matters of Niellen's everyday human life, but the threat of a Witcher roaming his forest was urgent enough to cross that widening chasm between them. He ran with unnatural speed, his hunger sated after he'd hunted. He'd brought down a large stag, let the forest wolves aid him in the hunt, lest the carcass he'd despoiled reveal too much. He'd found it strange that Niellen hadn't hunted earlier so that he would have something to eat that night, so he wouldn't have to expose himself needlessly to the Witcher's unwanted scrutiny.

He sensed something amiss even before he crested the top of the trail leading up the hillock. He found the shack brightly lit—a fire burned from the hearth, the shuttered windows betraying blazing light between the closed shutters. He dropped down into a crouch and approached the shack warily, a snarl uncovering his glistening teeth.

He paced about the entrance, inhaling deeply.

 _Who dared?_ he wondered, growing agitated and angry at the invasion of his and Niellen's sanctuary.

He inhaled again.

 _The familiar odor of spice and smoke, burnt wood._ It was a warm, heady scent he sometimes caught on himself.

His eyes narrowed.

 _She_.

How the woman had gained entrance he did not know. Those were problems that had spilled in from the daytime. He had no time to piece together how it had come to pass. Her presence was a threat…to him as much as herself. He circled the shack a few times, a persistent thought dogging him: gain entrance, chase her away.

_She does not belong._

He recalled the slender arms braced around his neck, a face buried in his chest, her soft breath as she whispered his name.

 _She does not belong_ , he thought again darkly. She had uttered his name, but she might as well have been summoning a ghost.

 _She does not know me_ , he snarled again.

* * *

Hanna shot up, startled from the light slumber she had fallen into, her hand splayed flatly over the trapdoor. She had heard it—a dull thud against the front door. The latch shot up to no avail— the crossbar was snugly lodged across the door. A louder, stronger thud resounded throughout the shack, followed by a low growl. After a few seconds of silence, a new onslaught against the door began, and she could feel all her hard-earned courage, all the bravado she had attempted to round up during her conversation with the Witcher earlier, drain away.

A loud roar and a hard blow to the shack's front wall shook the entire room. Hanna huddled in a corner, her head resting over her drawn up knees, her eyes wide, her heart thumping wildly. Her hand flew up to her neck, where she shielded and rubbed the wrapped up wound.

A brief silence followed as she held still. It was short lived though, as she could hear the unleashed anger against the locked entrance to the cave behind the shack. The roars took on a ferocious, guttural tone and she was able to discern angry curses as he thrashed.

"Open the door," he roared at last. "This is my lair," he warned her.

She wanted to say something, to demonstrate courage, to believe that there was a vestige of Niellen in that manifestation of fury.

Instead, she remained huddled on the ground, unable to move, too frightened.

 _He will kill me_ , she fretted.

When at last he stopped trying to gain entrance to both the shack and the cave below, she shakily drew a deep breath. Another infernal sound, though, filled her with dread: she could make out the loud sniffing coming from outside—as if his snout were pressed against the walls, seeking an opening.

At one point, she heard a low rumble—a disconcerting sound.

It was laughter.

"I smell your fear," he announced in that deep, raspy voice. "Are you determined to be my prey?" he mocked. "You are in my lair," he chuckled cruelly. "When I return tomorrow, you best be gone," he warned her.

* * *

Although the rays of sunshine the following morning had the effect of chasing away the intensity of the terror she had experienced the night before, when she finally awoke from her agitated sleep, she found herself curled up before the ashen hearth, a poker firmly ensconced in her hands.

She had not succeeded.

The first night had passed.


	8. Reckonings and Truths

"Of course I'll hurt you. Of course you'll hurt me. Of course we will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. To become spring, means accepting the risk of winter. To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence."  
― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

* * *

Niellen entered the village midmorning, carrying four large hares. He appeared tired and haggard, Geralt noted as he took Roach out for a ride. Had he bothered thinking about it further, he might have guessed that Niellen had awoken in the woods, sprawled naked over a tapestry of dried leaves. Two wolves slept at the small den's entrance, stirring only when he rose, brushing off the dirt from his arms, chest, and stomach. One of them sleepily watched Niellen collect his belongings before he yawned and settled his head back over his extended paws. Niellen had been disoriented when he awoke, shivering. He had hoped to awaken in the cave. Sometimes the creature even did him the courtesy of sleeping upstairs, in the shack. But such a thing had not occurred in a long time. He resented the creature for his thoughtlessness. He had grown more and more unruly, he surmised, begrudging him. At the shack he would have been able to drink some black tea, perhaps eat some cured meat, and dress into an old change of clothes he kept there for precisely those occasions. He stared into the forest helplessly, debating whether to go inspect it—perhaps something was wrong?— but something inside him revolted violently at the thought. He knew better than to question his instincts and he decided to go on a hunt instead.

Geralt watched Niellen head for his cottage, the gladiolus flowers brightly bobbing in the breeze over the fence in the small, but lovingly tended garden. He pat Roach's lustrous coat with satisfaction. He was still fastening Roach's saddle when Niellen bumbled out of the cottage looking about in confusion. Margaret was gone—the entire village already knew it. The confirmation of her departure: a hastily scribbled note and a missing pouch of orens he was sure Niellen would eventually find a bargain upon finding himself freed of her.

"You're welcome," Geralt uttered under his breath, as he swung a leg over the saddle and gripped the reigns.

* * *

On the night before, Geralt knocked on the door. He waited patiently for it to swing open, expecting Margaret's bitter, pinched face. When she did open it, he found her in her straw hat, he noted, bemused.

"Well?" she asked suspiciously, drying her hands in a dingy dishtowel. The cottage exuded a warm, welcoming air. A pot bubbled in the hearth while the aroma of freshly baked bread permeated the room.

 _Plotting a smooth transition_ , Geralt thought.

"Where is Niellen?" he asked. "I have news to report," he explained.

At this, Margaret stepped back and allowed him inside.

"He isn't here. He's gone off hunting. Keeping himself from being idle."

"I found Hanna," he announced abruptly.

It was as if the air had been sucked out of the room. Margaret held achingly still, a tense uncertainty in her features even as her eyes bore into him darkly.

"You were right: she is dead," he added.

"I told you so," she retorted sharply.

Her voice did not waver and her eyes remained dry.

"Oh, I wish Niellen wer' still here. I wish you'd come earlier!" she lamented. "Now he can finally ease his mind, put his doubts to rest."

As Geralt remained at the entrance, Margaret examined him disdainfully.

"I suppose you've come to claim your fee?"

He merely watched her, nervously fidgeting about the kitchen, evidently eager to be rid of him. Instead, he reached into his satchel and pulled out a torn scrap of cloth. It was thick, red, and heavy.

"I found this. Do you recognize it?"

"Proof enough: that's a piece of Hanna's cloak," she acknowledged dispassionately.

He then produced a piece of folded parchment from his satchel and waved it in her direction. On one side there was writing he knew she would recognize. The letter appeared stained with broad streaks of mud.

"How unfortunate," she added matter-of-factly, her eyes scanning the parchment. "More proof. That's a letter our father sent recently. Hanna tended to carry letters in the pocket of her work dress. She was a poor reader, you see. Liked to practice with letters and such." She nodded impatiently. "Thank you, Witcher. I will break the news to Niellen when he returns. If you'd like to stop by tomorrow morning to collect—"

"Would that be before or after you greet him in your sister's bed?" Geralt wondered aloud.

Margaret's eyes blazed with unchecked aversion.

"Your work here is done—off with you!"

He was savoring the moment. Although he did not think of himself as cruel, he did want to make the traitorous sister squirm. Without acknowledging her dismissal, he flipped the parchment over and began to decipher the rusty marks over it.

"The writing is not very good: lots of mistakes. Poor readers are often even worse writers." He squinted theatrically, with the fleeting realization that Dandelion would be terribly proud of his latent thespian tendencies. "Let's see now: 'Warn Niellen.'" He raised his eyes and examined her for a reaction.

She had grown pale—her hands gripped the top rung of a kitchen chair to steady herself.

"Margaret is my killer." He stared at the parchment. "Written in blood."

Margaret let out a strangled cry and flew towards Geralt in a fury.

"Give me that!" she screeched, panicked. "It is a lie!"

He held the paper up beyond her reach as she desperately attempted to wrest it out of his hands.

"I told you already: not in the habit of leaving a job undone," he declared, placing his arm between them and hiding the parchment inside his gambeson. She glanced around the room in desperation. He noticed her eyes alight upon a paring knife set beside the cutting board.

"I don't recommend trying that," he warned her.

She finally crumpled to the ground, her hands over her face.

"Listen, Margaret— here is how this is going to end: tonight you are going to collect all your belongings, all your valuables, and pack them the best you can. Then, tomorrow morning, you will leave at first light with the merchant to Mulbrydale," he explained in an uncompromising tone. "From there you can pay to accompany a caravan safely to Novigrad, or to your hometown, or wherever else you wish to go… But you will never, ever come back here, understood?"

She eyed him dejectedly, the rims of her eyes red.

"Truth is, you do not deserve this opportunity. You get the chance to live your life somewhere else—something you denied your sister out of spite. So let me make myself clear: you will want to leave before Niellen returns tomorrow and I give him this so I can settle this contract and collect my well-earned fee." He traced an Axii sign in the air to ensure the instructions were well inculcated in her head.

Geralt was halfway down the pathway from the cottage before he heard something heavy smash and shatter against the door.

He smirked at the commotion behind him.

_I did my part—now it's up to you, Hanna._

* * *

The Witcher, the cooper, his wife, and their two daughters had seen Margaret leave with the merchant in a terrible rush that morning.

"With great haste—lookin' over her shoulder as if somethin' ghastly were chasin' her," the village cooper confirmed the Witcher's account to Niellen soon after.

"Probably for the best," his wife stated. "An unmarried lass in a house alone with a man…T'is trouble. Nothing good comes of it."

Niellen halted before the kitchen in disbelief.

It was as if a small hurricane had upset the room. Chairs had been upturned, shards of broken plates littered the floor. The rooms appeared to have been ransacked: sheets had been pulled off the mattresses and clothes littered the floor. He stepped gingerly past the chaos and confirmed that Margaret was gone. Most of her belongings were missing: her clothes, her shoes, the ubiquitous straw hat. He wasn't sorry that she had left, although she had departed at a strange time and under intriguing circumstances. The note she'd left read, "There is nothing left here for me. I have gone to Novigrad. Be well." Further inspection revealed that along with her personal effects, she had also relieved him of more than 30 orens. He cursed angrily. He still had a pouch of coins hidden back in the shack—it was part of a contingency plan he'd hatched long ago, before he was married, in the event he needed to flee the village in a hurry. But those 30 orens Margaret had lifted off him represented weeks, if not months, of hard work, he huffed, frustrated.

And there was the Witcher to pay still.

Winters were harsh enough and now he and Hanna would have to forgo a few comforts.

And then he froze, the realization assailing him.

 _Hanna_ , he mourned achingly. There was still no sign of her.

* * *

A small brook ran further down the hillock behind the shack. For the first time in days, Hanna ventured out and peered about cautiously. The small hut was isolated but tranquil, a haven in those dense, dangerous woods. She was surprised it remained undisturbed. Smugglers, bandits, and other undesirables were known to cross those woods. Then again, anyone foolish enough to attempt such a thing had no idea who they would be up against, she realized with a shudder, remembering the creature's threats.

She washed herself quickly, ever watchful and alert of movement and noise around her, rubbing the grime and blood off as best she could. Although she was prepared to sprint back towards the hut at the smallest sign of danger, she found her fears gradually subsiding as she took stock of the peacefulness of the forest at that moment. Birds chirped boisterously and she glimpsed a herd of lithe, graceful deer in the near distance. She hauled the large jug of water she had filled back towards the hut, placing it down heavily by the hearth. The water tasted cool and sweet, she thought, filling a tin mug she had found hanging on a hook on the wall.

When the sun reached the halfway point in the sky, she forced herself to the trapdoor and undid the latches. A dank, musty odor wafted from below—the air was stale and damp. Mustering her courage, she descended the ladder, a candle in hand, to find her bearings in the cave. The cave went on, deep into the ground, the bedrock a moist, glistening shade of ochre as revealed by the glow of the candle. Behind her, only a few steps away, the large wooden door had remained locked since the night she'd escaped into the cave. She drew a deep breath, and with trembling hands, raised and slid the crossbar away. Even though it was still light, she scrambled up the ladder, and then, after a moment of thought, hoisted it up clumsily, the top edges hitting the walls, bumping against the ceiling and partitions as she maneuvered it until she managed to pull it up completely from the hole in the ground. She stared at the gaping darkness below, her pulse quickening, and dread and anticipation filling her thoughts.

Hanna peered out a window before shutting it against the rising moon. She'd never realized it before, but she and Niellen had never enjoyed the nighttime view from their cottage. So many nights she had admired the full moon from their window back in Blackbough, but never by his side. The village was perched high and the views of the forest below and the sprawling sky were breathtaking. She had gazed at it many times with a sullen and withdrawn Margaret, she remembered with a pang. She had also enjoyed it with her friend, Glenna, as the two occasionally shared a bottle of drink together under the cover of night, the stars shimmering in the distance, their conspiratorial laughter a balm for her loneliness whenever Niellen was away.

The Witcher had told her that for three nights Niellen would be helpless, unable to resist, caught in the full moon's undertow, she recalled. As night fell over the woods, darkening corners and lengthening the shadows in the room, she felt her courage begin to ebb away once more. As she rested her back against the wall, she closed her eyes and waited.

 _I'll return tomorrow_ , he'd promised.

* * *

The beast's dark eyes, the shade of tilled earth, reflected the almost perfectly round moon overhead. He gazed at it with a wistful longing, a lament catching in his throat. The moon was always the first thing to hold his attention when he emerged, transformed and renewed. A cracking sound in the woods, though, alerted him to animals nearby. He bared his fangs in a deadly grimace and stealthily wove between the bushes to stalk his prey. Niellen, he realized darkly, had once again forced him to transform in the woods. No shelter, no food…It was as if he'd been forgotten, turned out to fend for himself.

 _Suits me fine_ , he thought, preparing to lunge forward.

* * *

By the time he reached the shack, it was late and the stars adorned the sky brightly—a rash of pinpoints of light spilling across the firmament.

He was distracted, though.

The woman was still there, defying him. She, who spoke to him, but addressed another. He couldn't understand why she hadn't left. He'd given her ample opportunity—and warning— to flee. Why hadn't she? He pounded on the door once again, growling and howling, mostly for effect, savoring the fear he knew he was instigating in her. He demanded she open up the door, like he had the previous night, slapping the walls, his ugly hands flattened against the exterior of the hut, standing so tall that if he reached overhead he could easily touch the thatched roof. He wandered around the shack, making sure she felt surrounded, trapped. When he reached the cave door below, though, he found it ajar. He immediately barged in, slamming it behind him, and raised his snout into the air suspiciously. A square of light above flooded the area beneath it with a yellow brightness. He rushed to the opening and sought out the ladder, eager to climb up, eager to reclaim what was his. But when he reached the opening, he could not find the ladder. It was nowhere to be found. At the discovery, he roared angrily.

"Leave," he ordered her furiously.

It was then that he saw her lean over the opening and gaze down at him. For a brief moment he was disoriented: her hair tumbled down over her shoulder in soft dark gold waves and her eyes searched the gloominess below with unaccustomed eyes. He could discern the familiar odor: a spiced warmth wafting from her skin, a revealing sweetness…

And her fear—the only acrid note.

* * *

"Niellen," she called out tentatively and softly, gazing down the dark hole. Her hands clutched the edge tightly. "It is I," she stated. "Hanna."

"Who?" he mocked. "Come closer."

"Your wife," she reminded him, hopeful.

"I have no wife," he told her.

"Yes, you do. You married me—when you were a man," she explained. "Remember. You must remember."

He paced below, agitatedly.

"I am not a man."

Hanna stretched her body over the floor.

"Then…the other part of you. The one that walks by day."

"The weak one," he agreed.

"Please," she begged. "Can you remember?"

He was present in Niellen more than he cared to admit. He and Niellen were one when they ran through the forest hunting, when Niellen's heart pounded, his gaze sharpened, and his knife plunged into their wounded prey, his nostrils flaring from the chase, from the excitement. He was there, in the shadows, inside him, relishing it all...

"Leave," he barked.

"I cannot," she insisted.

"Why?"

"Because I am your wife," she began again.

The conversation continued in that circular manner for a while, and he grew angrier, more impatient.

"Lower the ladder," he commanded her.

"How do I know you will not harm me again?" she challenged him.

"You don't," he growled. "Lower the ladder," he rasped.

"I don't trust you," she admitted.

"But I am your husband," he teased her. "I am your Niellen," he provoked.

"You are nothing like Niellen!" she finally snapped.

At that he retreated from the brightness above. He grew irked by their exchange.

"What do you want from me?" he asked heatedly.

"I need you to remember," she pleaded. "I want you to remember… _him_. Remember _us_."

But she wanted no such thing, he understood, pacing to and fro in the cave. She wanted the _other_ side. She wanted him to disappear and only the other side to exist, to remain. She did not understand anything, did not know the first thing about the two that were one. He impatiently grabbed at the rocky wall and tried to hoist himself up. The walls were smooth though, possessing no good crevices and indentations for him to find a solid footing to hoist himself up. He began an ascent only to slide down. At one point, he was so close that if he were to stretch out his arm and reach overhead, he was sure his fingers would graze the edge of the trapdoor opening. He reached, frustrated, his claws only raking at the air. When her brows furrowed at him and he felt himself lose his grasp and begin to slide downwards, he snapped at her, his teeth gnashing into the air. The trapdoor fell down heavily overhead, casting him into a familiar darkness.

* * *

She held the trapdoor down, even after she had quickly slipped the latches. She placed all her weight on it, in paralyzed terror, fearing that he would somehow barge through, pin her to the ground again, tear her neck wound open…

"You!" he spat from below. "You say you are my wife, but you treat me like a stranger. How can I remember that which I can't see? That which I don't know?" he accused.

She said nothing.

"Go back to the Niellen you know," he growled. "Go back and help him lie to himself!"

"I cannot go back! There is a Witcher in the village. He knows the truth!"

"He will leave. Sooner or later. No one stays in Blackbough long," he snarled.

"He will leave, but not until you are dead."

He growled. He had sensed that much—Niellen's uneasiness lingered in him.

"I cannot risk losing Niellen," she began.

"I am Niellen!" he roared furiously. "You cannot risk losing me, yet you will not even open this trapdoor!"

She could feel her eyes sting.

"I hate you!" she cried, banging on the wooden trapdoor. He was the curse, he ruined everything.

He wandered in small circles, the cave suddenly oppressive, suffocating.

"It doesn't matter how you feel, it doesn't change that I am Niellen and Niellen is I. You hate me, you hate him."

"Him, I love," she clarified defiantly.

He laughed in his unnerving manner, throaty and knowing.

"Then me, you must love as well."

* * *

She heard him leave, already late in the evening, her head rising from the hard floorboards in an exhausted stupor. He slapped the sides of the house as he left, a chorus of thuds startling her with his every step.

"Be gone," he grunted, before slipping into the forest.

She rubbed her forehead. Shame overcame her.

She had failed again.

Two more nights, she realized. She had two more nights before it was too late and everything was lost.


	9. Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger warning for attempted sexual coercion.**

"The whole thing is quite hopeless, so it's no good worrying about tomorrow. It probably won't come."  
― J.R.R. Tolkien

* * *

Niellen had awoken beneath the trees, a taste in his mouth that reminded him of ashes.

He gathered the beast was deliberately avoiding the shack if he was awakening like that in the forest. He decided he would avoid it as well; he was not inclined to seek it out. If there was trouble at the shack, then that was not the time to resolve it. He sought out his clothes and wandered back into the village, this time empty handed.

Back at the lonely cottage, he sat for a long time in the kitchen, among the chaos Margaret had left before she fled. He did not bother opening the shutters or lighting the hearth. Instead, he sat with his sorrow and the enormity of his loss.

Perhaps he should accept that there would be no return to the life they'd shared; Hanna was gone forever.

_It is time for me to go_ , he thought. _Would it be so bad now to end my days on a Witcher's blade?_ he wondered glumly.

* * *

Geralt exhaled heavily as he rode past the shuttered cottage. He'd decided to travel further east for a couple days, to investigate a few local contracts…and to better resist the temptation of breaking his promise of not intruding on Hanna's plans.

_Two more nights, Hanna. Whatever we've set into motion will have to end, one way or another._

_Please let it be another_ , he hoped against hope with a parting glance over his shoulder.

* * *

That night—the night of the full moon, Hanna had made a decision. She lowered the ladder and pulled the trapdoor open. She lit the lamps in the cottage and steeled herself.

She had thought long and hard about her odd exchange with the creature the previous night; even though the prospect of coming face to face with the monster was a chilling one, she had decided that nothing would change if she continued to hide. If he hadn't killed her in the frenzy of the hunt, then she had to believe he would spare her. Perhaps he was right. How could he remember that which he didn't know? And if she never let him closer, how would he know? If Niellen was trapped inside him, perhaps standing before the monster was the only way of reaching him. She had to take the risk.

She sat outside, in front of the house, the sunshine comforting and invigorating. Her hands, arms, and neck had begun to scab over, crusty brown skin streaked over her cuts and scratches. In the afternoon she kept herself occupied, preparing a pot of stew, chopping and slicing hunks of salted meat she had boiled again and again until the saltiness wasn't so cutting, adding some root vegetables left in the crates by the door until a pungent, earthy odor drifted from the simmering pot.

She would be unafraid. She would hold steady. And then he would remember, she encouraged herself. Then he would know her. She sang very softly, the song an anchor, a reminder of the life left behind, the life she wanted back.

Perhaps her love was strong enough to break that curse, she hoped.

* * *

The full moon emerged, golden at first, rising over the horizon and growing paler as it crossed the sky. That night something else summoned the werewolf as well: once again he found himself before the wretched shack, resentful of its most recent inhabitant. He approached it slowly, silently, his senses alert. A timid melody reached his ears and he halted, something inside him following the rise and fall of the notes; he'd heard it before. Many times. Niellen had stood very much like he was standing just then, eavesdropping, listening to the faint song, evidence that inside those walls was something that warmed the man's soul just as the fire warmed his chilled limbs. He found it soothing and let the music lull him for a bit as his eyes contemplated the sky, mesmerized by the moon.

He was jolted out of his pleasant reverie by the loud, grating noise of a chair being dragged across the floor. He snarled, annoyed, and sought the path down to the cave. All that disruption, all that tumult had unsettled him, and he longed for the quietude of his lair. He would enter it and remain deep inside. Perhaps Niellen could deal with the woman in the morning.

But once he entered the cave, he noticed the trapdoor had been left open.

Overhead he heard footsteps. A thick odor—meat—he gathered, his nostrils flaring—hung in the air.

As he stepped beneath the trapdoor, fascinated, his foot bumped into something leaning against the cave wall:

The ladder.

His eyes flashed, hunger spurring him onward.

* * *

Hanna tried not to show how much she shook as she heard him struggle with climbing the ladder. His hands were too large over the slender rungs and the wood clattered noisily against the rock as he hoisted himself up. He emerged from the opening like a nightmare, a foul apparition crawling out of the earth's entrails. She lowered her eyes to conceal the revulsion that overcame her at the sight of the monster: ugly muzzle, his sinewy chest and arms, bare and thick, ropes of taut veins running beneath his scarred flesh. He crouched at the opening, finally inside the house. His eyes glistened in the firelight.

_Demon_ , she thought.

"I warned you," he reminded her.

"Are you hungry?" she asked, maintaining her composure as she indicated the bowl she had laid down on the table, opposite from her place setting.

"What a dangerous question," he declared, moving lithely towards her.

* * *

He sniffed the soup and then stared at her bowl as she daintily dunked her spoon into the broth, bringing it to her bowed lips.

"I want that one," he decided suddenly, peering at her bowl, raising his snout into the air. "That one isn't poisoned."

"Neither bowl is poisoned," she argued.

"Since you don't trust me, I don't trust you." He couldn't help licking his chops as she pushed the bowl across to him.

"You should: I am your—"

" _Wife_ ," he interrupted, uninterested. "And never in the history of matrimony has a wife ever wished her husband dead," he grunted.

Once her bowl was before him, he tossed the spoon and her daft fantasies of civilization aside and began to lap noisily at the soup. It tasted salty and hot, beads of fat floating on the surface. He chewed, raising his muzzle, slivers of meat between his teeth, the stew spilling on the table. He finally tilted the bowl so far forward as he licked the last bits from the bottom that it toppled noisily to the ground. She watched with disgust the grotesque spectacle before her. At her expression, he revealed his sharp teeth in a savage grin.

"I am done," he informed her. "What else is there?"

She glanced down at her bowl.

"You may have this one too," she told him. "I seem to have lost my appetite."

"That is no good! Put that spoon aside and lap your food," he ordered her. "Why restrain yourself when your appetite is so much larger than that useless thing can handle." He stared at her hand clutching the spoon.

"Restraint is what distinguishes man from beast," she retorted.

At this he laughed his raucous laugh, a grunting, snorting sound.

"Do you wish to civilize me?" He leaned forward. "Learn this: I cannot be tamed."

Her heart tightened. As if wanting to prove his point, he leaned further, until the end of his snout practically rested against her nose. The blood drained from her cheeks. Without a further word, though, he dropped his muzzle into her bowl and began to eat in that thrashing, messy manner of his, stew spilling over the table, on the floor, and over her lap. She flinched and sat back in her chair tensely. When he was done, he pushed away from the table and stood in the middle of the room, surveying the shack. In the daytime, Niellen normally brought provisions, restocked supplies. In the evening, Niellen would dutifully descend into the cave, where he could undergo the throes of his change in solitude and peace. At night the monster hunted, roamed the woods, and before dawn he returned to the shack, settling over the makeshift bed, disappearing and giving way to Niellen beneath another sunrise. The woman had disrupted everything in their existence—all of Niellen's provisions were almost gone and he resented the fact that she had not returned to the village or that Niellen had not come to take her away. It was an all-around betrayal, he thought sullenly.

"Go back to your village," he said to her scornfully. "Leave this place. Return to your man."

"I told you already that if I cannot help you both remember what the other has done and be accountable for those actions as either being, you are both doomed," she attempted to explain again.

"Listen to you!" he shouted, his eyes widening with annoyance. "When he is you, you are he…" He snorted. "Where do you think Niellen is right now? Tucked away safely in his bed, in his house?"

"I wish he were!"

"And where do you think I go? Do you think I remain hidden behind trees, awaiting foolish souls wandering about the woods?"

"I don't care where you go during the day," she muttered, beginning to collect the fallen utensils.

As she bent down, her braid tossed over her shoulder his eyes were drawn to her neck, slender and pale, bare and tempting. He inhaled her raw, warm scent. His mouth watered and his nostrils twitched. He leaped over the table and dropped down in front of her, his eyes probing.

She stiffened again, even as her arm remained outstretched, poised to grip the goblet he had knocked off the table. As he did not move, she continued with her task, urging herself to calm down, take heart, remain steadfast.

"If you plan on taking Niellen home from here with you, you will have to take me, as well."

_Except it won't be you_ , she thought, shooting him a furious glare. _You will be…I don't know! Broken_. Could she even hope for more? Destroyed? It would be Niellen. Only Niellen.

"I wonder," he began, in a dangerously low voice, "what you will do once you cross the threshold of your cottage…Pretend to be the newlywed couple again?" he wondered. "With a garland of flowers on your head? Rowan tied over your bed to ward off evil, making offerings of white birch perfume to invite Melitele's blessings," he added mockingly.

Hanna froze, her hand midair.

"How did you know?"

"How could I _not_?" he snarled. "I was there," he retorted sharply. He leaned forward, causing her to lose her balance and falter to the side. "I am always there," he revealed, lunging over her, knocking her down once more. Her hands flew up to her neck protectively as she let out a faint cry, her chest heaving. For a brief moment he was discomfited by her terror. Niellen and he had been of one mind when it came to Hanna. Why had Niellen tried keeping her all to himself?

_So soft_ , he thought, clasping her shoulders between his mangled hands. He smelled her hair, his muzzle pushing against her cheek and the curve of her neck.

"What do you mean you were there?" she asked, the stench of her fear sour, unwelcome.

"I am Niellen, Niellen is I…" he mocked her in that exasperating way of his. He dislodged her hands from around her neck with a quick yank. Without further ceremony, he gripped her wrists, holding them down firmly by her sides. She turned her head away as he contemplated her.

"I know you," he uttered, his hulking, heaving body leaning over her. When she turned to look up again, he loomed over her menacingly. She did not fight him even as she engaged the contempt within her.

"You know _nothing_ about me. Nothing." Bile rose to her mouth, her anger was so sharp. "You are nothing like Niellen. The Witcher warned me that you are simply the worse of two worlds: you have the ferocity of wolves and the cunning cruelty of men."

His nose dipped again and she felt his snout, moist and cool, against the base of her neck. She squirmed as he moved to prod her bandaged wound, curious.

"Tell me where he begins and I end, where I begin and he ends. The moon fades, but it still looms in the sky, whether you see it or not," he stated in a raspy voice, inhaling her scent. "I know one thing: you survived a hungry wolf on the prowl," he muttered between his sharp teeth. "Look what almost happened," he complained, in a hushed manner, his breath hot against her neck, close to her wound.

She tried to extricate herself from his hold.

"I had not expected to find myself dealing with such savagery," she accused.

He leaned back at last, releasing her, eyeing her with a curious expression.

"Savagery?" he wondered, watching her sit up and massage her wrist. "I would say I am, if anything, very thoughtful, behaving exactly as expected of me. I would even say I am downright considerate…" he intoned poisonously. "Besides, my savage nature was never unwelcome before…"

"You are wrong! I hate it," she confessed, dragging herself away from him until she felt steady enough to stand again. She stood before him, commanding herself to appear strong, sturdy. "Why won't you let Niellen—"

"Ssh…" he hushed her, air hissing between his clenched teeth. "Without Niellen, I can't live, and without me, Niellen can't live. Know that it is I who gives him the drive to hunt through these woods, the instinct of where to go. It is I who guides him through the forest, my nature that keeps him safe, makes him kin to the wolves, so he may walk among them unharmed. It is I who lends him my speed and strength, who fills him with vigor and the steadiness to execute his kills." He circled her in an unnerving way, as if preparing to pounce on her. "Among other things..." She could see his eyes darken as she stepped away from him towards the wall, her hand nervously covering the bandage on her neck.

"No…" he insinuated, drawing closer, until he had backed her against the wall. He stood straighter, imposingly before her. "Without me, Niellen isn't half the man you think he is," he taunted her. "And you know me; you like me just fine," he stated more provocatively, "when you are panting and moaning beneath me, in heat," he goaded, eyeing her luridly. "Why won't you welcome me home, _wife_ ," he growled, "like you do when we return with our kills, triumphant and light, and reward us and sate our hunger."

She eyed him with horror.

"Why not?" he asked. "We have known hunger in all its incarnations, common and vulgar, and sated it easily during our travels. But you…" He contemplated her, suddenly silent. "But you, you were different. You satisfied us even as you left us hungry..."

She held still, her chest heaving. He slowly raised his brutish hand and plucked the first button of her dress open. A gasp emerged in her throat and died on her lips. It was pointless. She even thought of the silver dagger Geralt had lent her and lamented the fact it lay too far, across the room, on the worktable. If she stretched her arm to the side, she could attempt to grab the iron poker. The second button came undone. Her hand flew up protectively again, but he slapped it away as he reached up and tore her bodice open roughly. The way his snout twitched filled her with revulsion and she shut her eyes. He pushed her against the wall and his chest pressed against her breasts. He brushed his muzzle over her cheek and she cringed.

But then she felt his hand—his gnarled hand, reach down for the hem of her skirt and raise it slowly over her leg, brushing over her thigh.

The gesture was disconcertingly and intimately familiar. She felt his breath against her neck, quickening. For a moment she was lost in the sensation, in its welcome comfort. The only one who held and touched her that way was Niellen. A flush of warmth rose within her and she felt herself revive and respond to the caress. Her breath hitched. He held her tighter.

She felt her fear and tension dissipate as she slackened against him, as if relieved. Raising her hands, she took the beast's muzzle in her hands, turning it to face her.

"Niellen?" she asked, opening her eyes and searching his. They were dark—nowhere as limpid as Niellen's, but she recognized a spark, an intensity held within them. He grunted a warning.

She made a decision at that moment. She would stop fighting him. She held still, resigned. If there was a chance that somehow surrendering to the creature would awaken Niellen, if it would bring him back, closer to her, then she would allow it. She would endure it.

She closed her eyes again, trapping the tears, even as the creature continued, pushing his hips against hers, just as Niellen had, so many times.

She would brave it.

She did not grimace when the werewolf gingerly sniffed her hair, ear, neck, all the way down to her breasts. She opened her eyes again sadly, her heart pounding with fear. When his red tongue flicked at her nipple she let out a sob as her head turned away. The gesture did not go unnoticed on unappreciated.

A low growl came from the beast. He released her arms as if she burned his flesh, backing away, distraught.

"Niellen?" she asked tentatively, hopefully, clutching the bodice over her breasts.

"You will lose us," he declared, moving further away, disappointment in his eyes.

"Why won't you release Niellen? Give him back to me. Why won't you help him remember?" she cried. "What will it take?"

"You tell me," he countered.

"Where are you going?" she asked nervously, as he determinedly retreated to the door. _One more night, she thought. Only one more night left._

"I am leaving," he said.

"You can't," she pleaded. "You must stay."

He turned to her, a miserable air about him.

"You do not understand. You cannot see. You never treated me like this before."

"What are you saying, you wretched thing!" she wailed. "I was willing to give myself to you to help you remember Niellen—"

He laughed—that deep, rumbling sound that so disconcerted her.

"Keep your offering—I don't find it appetizing. I don't require sacrifices. I am no scavenger. I prefer life and warmth to sustain me. It is you who must remember," he repeated.

With that, he flung the door open, the moonlight bright and grey over the path outside. Without even a parting glance, he rushed into the night.

"Wait!" she shouted, a turmoil of emotions seizing her. "You can't go!" she called out.

But she was answered with silence.

_One last night left and then..._

She fell to her knees and buried her face in her hands and wept.

She had squandered another night and feared she was nowhere closer to saving Niellen.

* * *

When Niellen entered the village at dawn, disheveled and dirty, and barged through the door of his cottage, he found himself standing among the debris of his former life. The life he had striven so hard to protect and preserve. For her. For her sake.

He climbed into their unmade bed and stared at the rowan over the headboard. His mouth was filled with a viscous, metallic taste. _Blood_. He dreaded what he had done the previous night. He worried and fretted over what may have crossed his path, for more and more he remembered nothing. It hadn't always been that way, but since Hanna he had wrangled mightily with the beast, structured his waking hours around keeping him away, apart, hidden. He suspected the beast begrudged him for it.

As he fell into a listless sleep, heavy and dim, a sleep welcome only because it was an escape, he remembered what he could only comprehend as a dream.

It had been a dream as sweet as it was cruel.

Hanna was in his arms again. So real, her scent lingered even then in his nostrils, the saltiness of her skin on his tongue. But she wasn't real. She couldn't be real. His Hanna would not have cringed at his touch or remained cold under his caresses. She was as if dead, her heart unmoved, repulsed by him.

That day he would not leave the cottage. He would not rise from their bed to eat his meal, would not answer the door when Glenna called later on, seeking news. He did not move at all, his back turned to the locked door.

The sun would cross the firmament and he would remain where he was, feeling the day sieve through his bones as the last moon prepared its summons. He would be bound to heed it, even if he had no strength, no desire to prepare for that evening. He would not hunt to feed the beast later. He would not walk to the lair beneath his shack. He would not endure the throes of his transformation in that solitude, nor would he go to the cottage once released from his transformation. There was no home. Nothing to return to, anymore.

He would wander the forest that last night and on the day after, he would wait for the Witcher's return and ask him to put him out of his misery forever.


	10. Animus

"Whene'er the fate of those I hold most dear  
Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow,  
O bright-eyed Hope, my morbid fancy cheer;  
Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow"

-"To Hope" ~ John Keats

* * *

Hanna paced about the cottage in a dither pondering all that had transpired between herself and the werewolf. One more night before the Witcher returned and demanded proof that Niellen and the beast were one—cognizant of the consequences of each other's acts.

_But the beast is nothing like Niellen_ , she argued with herself.

"You tell me," he'd challenged her.

He had lusted for her, but he hadn't taken her. He compared her to carrion, instead—a thing dead and inert. It struck at her pride—she had been willing to allow him to have her. Who was he to demand that she welcome him into her arms as if he were her—

_Husband_ , she thought, a dull ache weighing in her chest.

Niellen was tender and gentle, she remembered. He was solicitous and thoughtful and ever caring…

Except…

_When kisses yielded to bolder caresses, when they ignited the longing that coursed through them both, she encouraged the hands that ran over her hungrily, that tore through buttons, hoisted up skirts, and yanked down her small clothes urgently. In the early days she would blush when he said he could smell her desire—a heady, musky odor. But later she took pride in it, relished its effects over him. She recalled Niellen's mouth coursing over her neck, nipping at her skin, sometimes leaving a red mark in a moment of passion. Her moans blended into his grunts and sighs as she met his thrusts, her hips moving of their own volition, the throbbing between her legs heightening, tightening, just as needily. There were no words exchanged, only their shallow breaths, as she writhed against him, demandingly. How often had she clung to him, her nails buried in his back, her legs wrapped around his hips, their bodies covered in a film of sweat. How often had she cried out, her back arching as he brought her to her release? How easy had it been to lose herself, where something primal and wild overcame her senses?_

The depth of her need, the rawness of that desire they shared had scared her at first.

_But with me you will always be safe_ , he had told her. And he had meant beyond guarding her in the dense woods.

In everything.

"I love you," she would whisper in his ear, his chest still heaving against hers.

"Do you? Truly?" he'd ask gamely, holding her tightly.

"Aye." She'd nod, enjoying that intimacy they shared. "And I always will," she'd tell him.

"Even when I've gone round and my hair has turned white?" he'd test her playfully.

"Yes!" she'd confirm. "Even if you should go bald," she'd provoke, running her fingers through his thick, dark head of hair.

"Mm. That's love," he'd tease her.

"No matter what," she'd tell him, the moment of levity yielding to her sincerity.

"No matter what," he'd repeat as if reciting an incantation: a spell to offer protection, dispel the darkness.

She had always admired his strength, skill, his courage in confronting the wilderness, the unknown in the shadows.

She had never imagined it was because he embodied it.

* * *

What had the creature told her? He'd been there all along. Not only been there, but spurred Niellen on. She shivered at the thought of the werewolf pushing against her, although for a brief moment, she had believed herself back in Niellen's arms the night before. She paused to marvel how well the creature recalled their bedroom—the rowan, the white birch. She wondered if he looked at the world through Niellen's eyes.

_In heat_ , he'd said of her.

She shuddered and crossed her arms.

It almost sounded as if not only he saw through Niellen's eyes, but felt with Niellen's body, as well.

On the bad days, on the days he'd wander back empty-handed, haggard, he'd curse and rage over his bad fortune. On those days he would turn his eyes warily at her.

"Ready to flee yet? See the mistake you made? You would have been better off with another," he'd thunder.

On those days Margaret slinked behind the doors, slithered against walls, eavesdropping and watching. On those days he would rail angrily against fate, against his fortune, his accusations leaden with a sadness and sorrow she did not understand at first.

She would order Margaret out, invent errands, and on the first couple of times it happened, she had stepped away, fleeing him temporarily as well—as if waiting for the stirred up dust to settle before returning to take another breath of air. But the longer she remained by his side, the more she became his wife, and seeing him despair tore her inside as well. One time she had stilled his hand before it dashed a plate against the hearth. Another time, she had seized him around the waist, clinging to him, having nothing to appease his stormy nature but herself.

And it had been enough.

_This is my sanctuary_ , he told her once as they lay together, tracing a finger over her heart. _And this is where I worship_ , he'd uttered roguishly, slipping his fingers past the dark curls between her legs.

Who had he been then?

She felt the blood drain from her as she imagined the beast taking over him in her day-to-day life, unbeknownst to her.

But where did Niellen end? Where did the monster begin?

_You never treated me like this before_ , he accused her before leaving. _It is you who must remember. You cannot see._

_See what?_ she agonized. She did not know what else to do. She had to think, hatch a plan before nightfall. A chill settled over her and she cracked the door the fetch more firewood. In weather like that she preferred the warmth of the hearth, missed the shelter of her roof.

The man and the beast. Who reigned over whom? She wondered.

_I cannot solve this riddle_ , she lamented. _And it will cost us all dearly._

_You will lose us._

* * *

Niellen burst out of the cottage flinging the door open, the hinges creaking in the late afternoon breeze. The view from the village over the forest canopy was a beautifully haunting sight—all the foliage shimmered: a wave of rustling leaves rolled across the hills. He trudged down the path under the gaze of the villagers. Gazes filled with pity.

"Don't lose heart—you'll find her," he'd often heard at first. But now the voices around him grew silent.

"Headed out for a hunt?" the blacksmith called out from his yard, his forge puffing a flume of noxious smoke towards him.

He did not reply and walked on, his eyes downcast. The crossbow slung over his back was perfunctory; nothing in those woods he had known all his life, those woods he combed so ruthlessly, contained anything that could harm him in either shape he took. Nothing could harm him.

Except confirming his suspicions of Hanna's fate.

He crossed the gates and did not look back. At that moment he believed he would not be returning. He searched the sky, anticipating where the moon would rise, and stepped off the path. There in the half light of the moon he would surrender, he hoped, for the last time.

* * *

_You will lose us_ , she mourned.

There was no other outcome. She had gone up against the beast and had lost. He was unyielding and strange, she thought. Geralt had warned her. She had stubbornly thought she would succeed. Niellen wandered about in the day while she hid, wasting time, trying to fetter him out of the werewolf's clutches. Why had she wasted all that time? She wished she could go to Niellen, perhaps persuade him to run away—they could try and flee from the Witcher. Despite her hopes, the plan rang hollow. Where would they go? Winter would soon be upon them and there was a war ebbing. Blackbough, small, backwards, and forgotten, so off the beaten path, had remained surprisingly untouched when all of Velen appeared to be wallowing in the miserable aftermath. Few remained in a place where the prospects were so limited. Conditions were far from luxurious and so much of their existence was dedicated to securing their own survival on a day-to-day basis.

And yet…she had been happy. She loved the simple life they had been building together.

Except that she wondered how long Niellen would have been able to sustain that double life. She questioned whether he would have ever told her. What would she have done if he had?

Margaret had been eager to show her, to frighten her away. Did Margaret imagine, she thought angrily, that Niellen would have simply taken up with her afterwards…out of necessity? Out of pity? Out of…a lack of options? Her expression clouded.

Margaret had known the truth. She wondered how. Hanna had gathered Margaret's excuses for her frequent outings were flimsy long ago. She must have used the time to trail after Niellen. She must have seen something. Margaret was clever—always had been.

Margaret had wanted him enough to accept him—all of him, despite…

She peered around the pleasant, simple room, the fire crackling as she hefted the cooking pot back over the burner.

_All of him._

Like it or not, Margaret knew. And she still desired him for herself despite his curse.

_What if I had known_? She asked herself, bracing her folded legs with her arms as she sat by the fire.

And for a moment she was seized by fierce jealousy, a hurt over the fact Niellen hadn't trusted her with his secret. She resented that her discovery had been forced by none other than her rival.

_Who do I love? Who is he?_

Was Niellen the heart and the beast the soul? Or was it the other way around? Or did their roles slip and shift as well, like the phases of the moon?

_I wonder if you have what it takes to love him like he deserves?_ Margaret's accusatory tone provoked her, irked her. _Love him heart and soul._

What did Margaret know of heart? She had none, as far as she could tell. And soul? Margaret's was forfeit. But the question still dogged her.

Did it matter? Truly? Could she look at the man and accept the beast within? Could she look into the creature's eyes and recognize the man?

One and the same. Present even in absence. Where she saw duality there was complementarity. The Witcher had said that the werewolf embodied the worse of both beings: savagery and cunning.

A memory rushed to her—something she had glimpsed during her voyage to Blackbough.

_The battlefield unfurled, littered with bodies, the soil drenched in blood, the deafening hum of flies buzzing in a miasmic cloud of putrefaction._

Either Velen had more werewolves than presumed, or viciousness was not unique to the beast.

What was she afraid of? From all she had gathered, men could be as ruthless as monsters.

The werewolf had spared her, she recognized.

_You, we both wanted_ , he had told her the previous night.

Whose hunger had she been quelling all along? To whom had she been offering herself? Which of the two had given her the pleasure that rushed through her, chased all thoughts away except attaining the fulfillment of that burning desire.

She leaned against the wall, longing for Niellen. She missed him, his embrace, the feel of his arms around her, the warmth of his body against hers. She recalled how the wolf had pushed her up against the wall, as if knowing all the steps in that seductive dance she and Niellen engaged in, from the hot breath against her skin to the promise of the hand hovering over her thigh. She recalled his tongue flicking over her naked breast and she shuddered—the sensation not entirely unpleasant.

She paused for a moment and tried to recall the werewolf's parting words.

_Without me, Niellen can't live._

She rose from the ground decisively.

_Neither can I_.


	11. Umbra

"He was a silent fury who no torment could tame."  
-Jack London

* * *

The werewolf roamed through the forest, alert to every sound, every movement. The man was not faring well, he sensed uneasily. He pushed past the overgrown brush, withering branches raking his legs. He preferred to leave any pondering to the man, but the bond between them had grown dimmer in a way it never had before and he found himself forced to rummage through memories and thoughts to make sense of the circumstances. The man was withdrawing from him… and from life. Perhaps, somewhere deep within, Niellen knew that Hanna was alive…and that she did not accept them as they were. There was no telling what Niellen would do if Hanna rejected them; the wolf was not willing to find out, as his was always the stronger survival instinct. Still, the thought of fleeing, disappearing, and beginning anew weighed on him strangely.

Niellen would not go far without Hanna. And he…He could not mourn for what should have but had never been his, but he couldn't deny the strong pull of his longing. Hanna had been different from the very beginning. She had been unlike other women they had known—and there had been many others, for their passions were compelled by a shared primal desire. Until Hanna, they hadn't been aware of how profound their need for more, beyond a night of pleasure, was.

Hanna had changed everything.

 _She's gentle and kind; she's generous and understanding_ , Niellen thought after their first walk in the forest together, as if justifying to the wolf why he was breaking all their rules: why they lingered longer in her village, why they were willing to forgo their itinerant, vagrant lifestyle, even risking a moon cycle in foreign woods.

And Niellen hadn't been the only one struck by Hanna.

 _There is more_ , the beast had agreed in those early days when they followed her slender figure strolling through the busy market, _there is a wilderness in her soul— she does not fear it. She sees it in us. And she wishes to know it._

 _Let her,_ he encouraged the man, enthralled by a longing stirring deeper than the promise of soft arms and yielding lips.

Yet, ever since Niellen had wed Hanna, nothing had gone the way it should have. He and Niellen had always been of one mind. For so long they had found balance, with Niellen keeping them safe, imposing limits, and boundaries, and he helping Niellen survive: tracking game, hunting, and persevering in the bleakest of times. Niellen had betrayed him, though. He concealed the truth from her. He'd lied to himself.

Now, the wolf surmised, how could he expect Hanna to act any differently than she had when she first laid eyes upon him, if Niellen acted as if he were indeed a monster?

He raised his dark eyes and focused his sight on rustling in the bushes further ahead.

 _Prey_.

He clenched his teeth and crouched closer to the ground.

 _Why should I care?_ Cursed, monster—such charges changed nothing about his reality. He simply _was_ , and right then he was famished. Right then, he was tired of the burdensome thoughts that spilled over to him from the man. All of it was Niellen's doing. The man had tried to keep Hanna all to himself. He'd created the rift. He'd been responsible for the imbalance and their unhappiness.

Hanna had caught glimpses of him in Niellen and had not shied away. _I wanted her as well_ , he admitted bitterly. He wasn't even aware of how lonely he had been until he'd met her. And now not only was he aware that he was lonely, he realized he was alone; Niellen had all but abandoned him to his fate.

Niellen had created that impossible situation. Not the curse: _Niellen_.

He stalked a herd of deer in deadly silence.

If the man strove to bury him, he would fail. The curse's summons offered him a blissful darkness he was willing to embrace if it meant the end of those tortuous thoughts, that painful awareness, that haunting loss. He was willing to surrender completely to his bestial nature, to drown further into mindlessness and pure instinct. The moon cast its ghostly glow throughout the forest. If he set off that evening, he could cover several miles before daybreak. It would be enough to put distance between himself and a witcher in pursuit.

* * *

That night he fed, alone, growling and preventing the other wolves from approaching his fresh kill. His jaws crunched bone and his muzzle buried itself in sinewy, nervy flesh. When done gorging himself at last, he pushed away from the deer carcass with a final glance at the animal's dark glassy eyes. When he crossed the path behind the hunting shack, the yips and barks of the wolves that had waited patiently for him to have his fill before helping themselves to his scraps echoed further behind him. He halted before the small brook and dipped his head under the icy water, slaking his thirst and washing the blood and gristle off his muzzle. As he shook himself off vigorously, beads of pearly water scattered all about him.

He had no idea if his plan would succeed. He had never attempted to allow himself to take over their dyad so completely. But if the man did manage to escape his grip, the call of the wilderness, they would need some practical items: coin, a few items of winter clothing, a few hunting implements. It would have to be enough. He headed for the shack, seeking to retrieve a few belongings before setting off. As he approached it, however, he found that the door had been left ajar. Familiar odors clung to the air: smoky firewood, boiled stock. A fainter perfume of cedar and the peaty stench of stored root vegetables wafted among those, too. His nose twitched as he sniffed- one distinct scent was missing:

Hers.

 _She has heeded my warning at last,_ _and left._

He imagined her wandering back into the village, waiting out the night for Niellen to return in her foolish, lovesick fervor.

 _Go ahead_ , he thought scornfully. _Wait for all your days: Niellen will not be returning_. He eyed the room resentfully; he would no longer be hidden away or shunned. He would not live clandestinely in his own home. He would not be unwelcome in his own skin.

By his own wife.

Something about the open door peeved him, however, and his eyes narrowed as he examined the room. It was strange to find the old place so unguarded, despite the Old Pellar's spell to conceal it from prying eyes and those who intended him harm. The room was orderly, but empty.

A bowl of stew had been left on the table. It had long grown unappetizingly cold—the hour was late and he was no longer hungry. He visited the other makeshift rooms behind the wooden pallets, finding everything in place, neat. There were no signs of struggle, nothing missing. The improvised bed had been made up tidily. Her scent emanated from the coverlet potently. He inhaled deeply and stepped away into the main room.

_She couldn't wait to flee this place. So harried that she did not even bother to shut the door behind her!_

Ominous howling sounded in the distance and his head snapped up.

An unpleasant thought seized him:

_These woods are not safe for her._

He'd scout the forest, one last time. As he prepared to leave, one detail caught his eye: the latches on the trap door in the ground had been left open. He relented to his nagging curiosity and crouched over the floor to examine them.

And it teased him again, at last—that slightly spiced perfume.

He flung the trapdoor open and found the end of the ladder firmly propped against the wall. Below, a weak glow emanated from deeper inside the cave.

 _Prying_! he realized, with a mix annoyance and relief. _In my lair. Reckless!_

He climbed down the ladder, jumping halfway down onto the stone floor and making his way further into the deep, domed space beneath the hillock.

_This ends tonight. It must._

* * *

He steeled himself, expecting to surprise Hanna and make her cringe upon seeing him, despite the fact _she_ was the one encroaching upon _his_ territory. He followed the flickering beacon even further below, until he entered the main chamber of the cave. He half expected to find a terrified Hanna gripping the lantern. His feet barely made a sound as he moved stealthily over the rocky surface. He stepped over the mossy patches of vegetation that thrived in that darkness, nurtured by the cool damp of the cave.

The lantern had been left on a larger rock, casting its tenuous light throughout the domed chamber. He found her asleep, wrapped snugly in a coarse blanket. She was lying over the pile of emptied grain sacks Niellen had tossed over the cave floor to create a layer between the cold and himself on the nights he preferred oblivion and solitude.

He circled her, peering at her pretty features. His eyes gazed longingly at the dark gold hair fanned over a sack she had folded into an improvised pillow. He was filled with a rush of sadness and resentment.

With the heel of his hand he jostled her shoulder roughly. As she did not respond immediately, he tried to awaken her once more. When she finally stirred and turned her head towards him, she blinked slowly, her eyes focusing as she reoriented herself.

"You came back." She pushed herself up. "I was so worried you wouldn't."

As he neither said nor did anything in response to her words, she sat up slowly, seeking his gaze.

"Why didn't Niellen tell me the truth?" she asked.

"How should I know? We haven't been of the same mind as of late." His patience was fraying.

He sat on his heels and she knelt before him. Raising her hand tentatively, she let it hover over his arm, where the fur met pale, taut skin covered in scars that tracked the seams of his transformation. When she gathered enough courage to attempt a timid caress, he recoiled angrily.

"What is this? Do you plan to fuck me out of Niellen now?"

Her brow furrowed, stung by his brusqueness.

"You aren't Niellen," she agreed, "but he is in you, like you have been in him all along."

He bared his sharp teeth at her.

"I know you, wolf," she continued, in a low voice, determined.

"You don't know anything." He edged closer, staring her down, his nose up against hers.

"And you don't know all that I am capable of," she challenged him.

"What are you saying? I know what I need to know: you are as treacherous as any human—" he began.

"Come here." She invited him to sit beside her. "We aren't strangers."

He eyed her with even greater suspicion, torn between disdain and curiosity.

"Come," she insisted. "With me, you too, will always be safe," she stated gently.

It was a bold declaration. She had barely finished uttering the words when he knocked her over the burlap sacks, pinning her arms to the ground. He expected her to reconsider, and for a moment a look of surprise flashed over her eyes. It was dangerous of her to say such things and dangle such false hope before him. Instead, she surprised him by reaching up and raking the fur on the back of his neck in a soothing caress, her fingers running over the rawhide strip that held the medallion of Melitele. He did not know if the gesture was causing him distress, but before he could make up his mind to push her away, she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer to her. Quietly, she brushed her cheek over his face. She nuzzled him with her nose, even as her cheek grazed his sharp, bared teeth. He let her touch him, observing her cautiously for any signs of betrayal: an inadvertent flinch or the smallest hesitation. As she embraced him tighter, digging her fingers into his fur, burying her face in his neck, her warm body rested against his and her soft breasts pushed against his chest. He tilted his head to the side, granting her access to continue her soothing caresses, bewitched by her touch. He rubbed his face against hers as well, a low grunt of satisfaction rumbling in his throat as she stroked him. She splayed her hands over his chest before tenderly running her fingertips over his tough, knotted flesh. It was when he ventured a caress of his own—his rough hand cupping her face—that her breath hitched almost imperceptibly and she turned her cheek into his palm. The hunter in him sensed her pulse quicken. Her hands slid further down, coursing boldly over the soft hairs past his navel.

He untangled himself from her, seeking her eyes inquisitively.

She could sense his reticence, his mistrust.

"I know you, wolf." Her tone was one of certainty.

"Who am I?" he asked, daringly, peering down at her. "Would you still imagine I am Niellen?"

"No," she whispered. "Not Niellen. Niellen is my heart."

"Who am I to you then?" he insisted, growing restless, unconvinced she would understand anything. "Who?" he demanded, prepared to retreat, to leave that place forever should she falter and wound him for the last time.

Instead, she peered at him with eyes filled with wonder.

"My dear wolf, you are my spirit; you are my soul," she whispered.

* * *

"You would love me?" he wondered.

"I already do. Always have." She met his gaze serenely.

His hand slid down to her neck, gently turning her head to the side. She held still. He would not hurt her, she knew. His expression grew sterner when he examined the ugly injury he'd inflicted. She closed her eyes when he drew nearer and his breath tickled her skin. He continued to inhale her, his hand moving from the base of her neck down over her cleavage until his taloned fingers snagged the buttons of her dress, popping them open. His touch had stirred her and she wriggled free of her bodice to grant him access. A dizzying thrill overcame her as his eyes coursed covetously over her body, now bared for him. He took in the soft gold down on her arms, her full breasts, and his breath quickened— a craving she knew well flashing behind his eyes. A jolt tingled through her when his gaze coursed past her stomach, and halted over her plain cotton small clothes. She raised her hips when he yanked them off roughly, helping him untangle them past her ankles, losing herself to the pulsing heat between her legs and the large, muscular hand that settled heavily over her thigh. He prolonged the sweet torture, gliding his fingers over her skin, up over the swell of her belly, tracing her navel. He caressed her breasts, his gaze darkening at her faint moans. When he finally brushed his fingertips against the soft hairs between her legs, he could feel her quiver with want, her heart racing at his touch. She placed her small hand over his, the gesture encouraging him further.

"If we continue this, if you give yourself to me completely, there is no turning back, Hanna. There is no undoing what we have set into motion," he rasped. "Do you understand? There will be nowhere you can go that I won't find you."

"Always find me: don't ever leave me," she pleaded so sweetly that he was consumed by his burning hunger for her.

* * *

Hanna was breathtakingly and wildly beautiful, he thought, enveloped by her seductive warmth. She responded so enticingly to his touch, to him, despite his otherness, his strangeness to her.

"Mine," he uttered in her ear as he took her slowly, a reminder as much as a claim. He coaxed her to a heightening excitement, until she embraced him tightly, surrendering to the intensity of her release. Her breaths were still ragged when the tightness within him reached a tantalizing, unbearable peak before erupting into bliss. When the last ripples of pleasure coursed through him, he grunted, collapsing beside her. She sought him, nestling in his arms, resting her head on his chest. He welcomed her touch; his was a primal craving: an overwhelming need to have his mate close, to shelter and protect her. They remained that way for a while, her eyes still shut.

At one point she appeared to collect herself and raised her head. His own pulse quickened at her assured stare.

"Mine," she uttered firmly. "No matter what." She tenderly echoed the promise she'd often given Niellen. But now the words were for him; she had claimed him at last.

* * *

Hanna awoke to faint groans and restless movement beside her. She opened her eyes to find herself in the sun-flooded bedroom back in the shack. Disoriented and still sleepy, she vaguely remembered being lifted and carried in strong arms from the cave into the warmth of the bed the previous night. Before she even raised her head, her arm darted across the coarse covers seeking a familiar form. Niellen mumbled at her prodding.

"Niellen!" she cried out, astonished.

"I'm here, love," he reassured her as she took his face between her hands in disbelief. "I am here."

"Oh, Niellen! I thought I would never see you again! I thought you were lost to me!" She flung her arms around his neck.

"It's all right," he murmured, holding her against him. "It's all right now."

She sobbed with relief.

"It's all right," he repeated, his lips brushing over her hair. "I remember now. I remember everything."

"Where is he? Is he gone?"

A pang of apprehension assailed him. Did she think the curse had been broken? The beast was still part of him. And always would be.

"No, Hanna." His mouth had gone dry.

She sat up beside him.

"Does he know?" She searched his eyes worriedly.

"Know what?" he asked warily.

"That I do not wish him gone?"

He took her hand and rested it on his chest.

"Tell him I love him. I always have," she told him gently. "How could I not? Please tell him, Niellen."

"Yes, yes: he knows, Hanna," he confirmed, glad, pressing her hand firmly over his heart. _"We_ know, love." He smiled, gathering her into an embrace.

* * *

 _What was I thinking?_ Geralt pushed Roach to ride faster up the desolate and narrow trail to Blackbough. Time away had restored his perspective. His agreement with Hanna had been a lapse of good judgment. _From me, of all people!_ he berated himself. He'd been swayed by…what? A pretty pair of eyes and some whimsical thinking. Certainly, a part of him firmly believed in considering certain creatures on a case-by-case basis. Definitely, the more sentient ones. He did not believe them all to be treacherous. They wished to simply be and to be left alone. Generosity, empathy, loyalty, and altruism… Characteristics ascribed to humans existed among other creatures, too. He remembered his dear friend Regis. And Dudu…and any number of beings he had spared over the course of his travels. Most had been quite innocent and reviled only because they were different. Or in the wrong place at the wrong time. The world was far more complex than people cared to admit.

And then he had to admit he was a bit sentimental; he understood clinging to the faintest sliver of hope when it came to matters of the heart. That had probably been the greatest reason why he'd relented to Hanna's poorly conceived plan. If there was hope for Hanna and Niellen, if she could love him so understandingly despite his wretchedness, perhaps he, too, would someday atone his way back to a certain dark-haired, lavender-eyed sorceress…

 _Dandelion's definitely a bad influence on me. I'm acting like one of the cretins in his sodding love stories when I have no right to do so._ A scowl settled on his rugged face and he focused intently on the trail spiraling up the hill, slowing Roach into a steady trot.

He crossed the gates into Blackbough at dawn.

 _Not a good sign_ , he noted warily as he rode past Niellen's small cottage. The door had been left open wide and inside he could discern a scene of disorder.

 _I hope he does not return to the village_. _This whole affair will be far less unpleasant if done swiftly in the forest_. He sighed heavily, a twinge of sadness dogging him. _Hanna is likely dead and it is my fault._ He regretted allowing her to talk him into that foolishness with the werewolf. His faltering had cost her her life. She had been fortunate, narrowly escaping death and what had he done? Nothing. Nothing to safeguard her from further danger. In a formidably sullen mood, Geralt rode up to the old barn and stabled Roach. He'd notified the old farmer before his departure that he'd be returning soon to stay again at his barn, but hadn't been too specific. He climbed the rickety ladder to the hayloft, dropped his pack and tossed a blanket over a pile of hay. He was exhausted and drained after his trip. He'd successfully completed a few contracts nearby, earning him some good coin—Velen was teeming with opportunistic parasites—both human and otherwise— that were reveling in the upheaval throughout the region. The void of a consistent, centralized authority meant fewer soldiers patrolled the roads. Both monsters and bandits swarmed the countryside. Equally frustrating was the fact that he'd been able to gather little to go on regarding his search for Yennefer. At some point, he'd have to return to Vesemir and decide on a course of action. He stretched out over the blanket, on his bed of lumpy hay, and closed his eyes. He would allow himself a modicum of quiet and rest before facing the unpleasantness the day held in store for him.

* * *

"Witcher!" the old farmer called out sharply. "Witcher! Where are you?"

Geralt's yellow eyes flashed open and he clenched his jaw.

"Up here." He sat up on the lumpy blanket.

"Ah! Wasn't sure where you'd gone—saw your horse but not you."

"I _was_ taking a short rest." He emphasized the past tense.

"Heh! Seems like while you were taking forty winks you missed out on your contract!" The old man chuckled, resting his hoe against the wall. Geralt grimaced tiredly.

"What are you talking about?"

"Your contract! With Niellen! Hanna has been found!" The farmer clasped his hands together, satisfied. "Poor woman took quite the lashing from those woods, but she managed to survive!"

Geralt flew down the ladder, landing with a heavy thud.

"Hanna…She's back? Here?"

"Aye!" The man grinned mirthfully. "Just late this morning, she crossed the city gates. There was quite a commotion, Witcher."

The man answered his question before he'd had a chance to ask.

"That Niellen—that man is a fine hunter. He somehow managed to pick up her trail. Seems like she had wandered far off into the forest and run into trouble."

"Really?" Geralt crossed his arms.

"Attacked by wolves," he continued in a conspiratorial tone. "Almost was the death of her. That neck wound she got is going to leave a big scar." He clucked his tongue as he went about sorting through his farming implements. "What possesses one to go wandering in the woods, I don't know. Damn foolishness, I say—good way to get oneself killed around here."

 _That remains to be seen_ , Geralt decided, heading for the door.

* * *

Hanna did not realize how weak and tired she was until Niellen cut the villagers' amazed prattling short, slipping his arm protectively around her waist and leading her towards their cottage. He'd had to pry the blacksmith's children off her, they'd been so delighted at seeing her return. As glad and relieved as she'd been to see them all again, she had to admit she was feeling faint.

"She needs to rest," he told them. "She's gone through an ordeal."

"Oi," Glenna called out to them as they walked away from the ogling and admiring crowd. "Let me know if you need help tidying up!"

Hanna glanced over her shoulder and nodded with a grateful smile. She didn't know that she would want to take Glenna up on her generous offer until she stepped through the door into the cottage.

"Oh, Niellen," she whispered, taking in the magnitude of the disorder in their home: upturned chairs, trampled linens, scattered cooking utensils all over the ground…

He swiftly dragged a chair up and presented it to her, urging her to sit. As she fell tiredly into it, he knelt beside her.

"I'll make it right again," he promised.

"Yes, _we_ will," she assured him, smoothing his face with her hands lovingly, leaning down to kiss his forehead. He basked in her affection, hungry for her touch.

They were interrupted by loud clucking. They both looked up, bewildered, as a chicken slowly strutted across their kitchen table. Hanna peered at him askance.

"I may have left the door open last night," he admitted contritely. "But in my defense, I was not in a good state of mind," he apologized.

The chicken clucked indignantly and Hanna let out a chuckle.

"Even my dear wolf keeps a tidier home," she teased him in a low voice. A bloom of warmth spread over his chest and he took her in his arms, kissing her eyes, her nose, her grinning lips.

That was how Geralt found them when he raised his hand to place a perfunctory knock on the open door.

At the sight of the Witcher, Niellen clasped her tighter. His eyes darkened, menacingly. Hanna, however, placed a firm, reassuring hand on his shoulder before offering Geralt her winsome smile.

"Master Witcher!"

He briefly contemplated the room in upheaval. Wordlessly, he bent down and collected a ladle. He stepped over the shards of a broken bowl and approached the two.

"I am relieved to see you, Hanna." His tone was kind.

"I am the best I have ever been." She clasped Niellen's hand tightly although the hunter still eyed him cautiously. There was something new about him, Geralt noticed: it was a quiet, powerful presence— a confident strength.

 _Good_ , Geralt concluded. _Everyone's here now_.

"I've come to settle our contract," Geralt announced.

Niellen nodded.

"I have the coin to pay your fee."

Geralt's eyes widened.

"What fee?"

Hanna exchanged surprised glances with Niellen. Geralt shrugged.

"You hired me to find your wife and bring her back to the village, did you not? I did no such thing. There is no fee to collect."

Hanna rose from her chair and approached her rustic stove, clearing the surface of tumbled dried herbs and overturned pots.

"Master Witcher, please excuse the mess. Won't you at least have some tea with us before you take your leave?"

"I will," he decided, sitting at the table. He glanced at Niellen, who was helping her start a fire. "I trust next time I pass this area I will hear nothing about wolves mauling travelers."

Hanna placed a heavy kettle on the stove before handing him a clean cup.

"No. It won't be a problem. It never had been. Not until…recently." Niellen wiped his sooty hands over his worn trousers. A small flame rose in the hearth.

"I'm impressed. You were careful." Geralt peered up at him. "I didn't suspect anything, at first. Normally, there are sightings and rumors swirling around the settlements where those like you stake their territory."

Niellen hesitated before nodding, probably uneasy to discuss such a thing with a witcher.

"I take it yours is an inherited blood curse?" Geralt spoke in hushed tones, although the windows were shuttered for the evening and the door shut.

"Yes."

"It would explain your control and restraint. Whoever taught you, taught you well. You covered your tracks, hunted far from the village, and only animals at that, and hid away safely during your changes."

"Aye," he responded quietly, looking away.

"And you, Hanna? You are not afraid?"

She shook her head vigorously. He couldn't help feeling the slightest twinge of envy and they sat in silence for a while.

"You are lucky." He finally addressed Niellen. "Fortunate to have someone so devoted and loyal. You and I know those like you are destined to lead violent and solitary lives."

"Her devotion and loyalty are returned hundredfold," he replied. "Make no mistake." The intensity in his voice left no doubt he meant his words.

"He isn't a monster, Master Witcher," Hanna began. He glanced at her somewhat wan but peaceful expression. "He is a wild creature, of the forest. Surely, that alone does not make him evil."

"You'd think that for a witcher, the definition of what a monster is, would be clear cut. For most purposes, it is: it must be. But sometimes, the lines blur and then it becomes a more subtle distinction between what is dangerous and what is different."

Hanna poured them all cups of tea.

"All I know is that men regard all they do not comprehend with suspicion. Such fear is permission for violence and it makes me wonder how to define what a monster is."

"Don't forget greed," Geralt added, taking a sip from the steaming cup. "In the name of greed, under the banner of scarcity, many will gladly commit atrocities."

"Did you fare well in your travels?" Hanna asked curiously, cupping her hands around her cup. His lips curled slightly behind his cup. He indulged her with descriptions of a couple recent contracts, noticing how the couple appeared to grow easier in his presence as his narratives took the attention away from Niellen. When finished drinking, Geralt pushed away from the table and stood up.

"I should be off. I am overdue to meet a friend at the Crossroads." He contemplated the young couple.

"Thank you. For everything," she called after him.

Before making his way to the door, however, he turned around, dogged by an afterthought.

"I do have a last question— just something that has puzzled me."

Niellen remained silent, but Hanna leaned forward.

"What is it, Master Witcher?"

"How was it that you were able to find the shack in the forest, Hanna? I was only able to see it after I used an old relic specifically enchanted to unveil spells of concealment."

She tilted her head.

"I don't know about any enchantment…I merely followed my wolf through the woods that night and came upon it on the hillock."

"It was visible to you all along?"

"Aye."

"There is a strong spell upon it—I am guessing you had the Pellar cast it?" Geralt glanced at Niellen.

"I trust the Old Pellar. I've consulted him on occasion. I asked him to conceal the hunting shack for me. He did not question it," Niellen explained, leaning down to collect a crumpled sheet.

"But spells always have a restriction or a condition, some limitation, to give people an easy out, a way to break or bypass them should they no longer be wanted. What was this one's?" he insisted.

"The Pellar cast it so that…" Niellen paused, an expression of sudden surprise and realization crossing his face. He faced Hanna. "…That only those who are aware of my nature and intend me or the wolf no harm could ever find it," he revealed, evidently overcome by a rush of emotion. "Hanna: even after what he did…I did…You never meant to hurt us?"

 _Ah. It is definitely time to go now_ , Geralt thought, nodding at the satisfactory answer. He was quite sure they wanted to be alone then and his presence was most certainly inconvenient.

"Take care of each other and be well." It came out sounding more like a command than a wish. He shut the door behind him, trying his best not to disrupt the tender moment unfurling, his final glimpse being of Niellen taking Hanna's hands, and bringing them up to his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the delay in updating. I've mentioned before that the entire story had been written out before I published it, but editing this chapter took me forever. I've scrapped it and reworked it so many times. I wanted to get it just right and was tinkering with it so much that at one point I just put it away before this became an incongruous mess... There is an epilogue and that, I am happy to say, is written and pretty much edited...and ready to go next week. I hope I do these lovers justice. Most of all, I hope you enjoy this.


	12. Heart of the Forest

"Those are the voices of my brothers, darling; I love the company of wolves."  
― Angela Carter

* * *

 

The trip down the southern trail would have to be delayed for at least a day. Fresh snow dusted the roads and the steely grey sky was portent enough that more was on its way. Geralt stepped into the small inn in at Mulbrydale finding it almost as he had last left it. He noted a small but significant change, however, that reminded him that circumstances had vastly changed since his last visit to Velen: a shield displaying the Temerian lilies hung prominently over the fireplace. Geralt held the door open as his traveling companion hurried in from the howling winds into the welcoming warmth of the tavern's foyer.

"Do you have any rooms?" he asked the innkeeper.

His companion lowered her heavy winter cloak's hood as she contemplated the rustic surroundings.

"And have you anything we could eat?" she wondered, running her fingers through her lush, dark hair.

"I have a room and can offer you some bread and cheese."

"Ale?" Geralt wondered.

"Always," the innkeeper finally grinned, beholding his striking companion. Geralt found that folk were more apt to be accommodating to a witcher if he was accompanied by a beautiful woman. Yennefer grinned, aware of her dazzling effect on the poor innkeeper. He had no doubt she would use it to her full advantage.

They soon learned they were the sole guests that stormy night. While peaceful, such solitude resulted in the innkeeper hovering around them solicitously during their meal for a lack of better things to do.

"I feel he is going to invite himself to sit with us any moment now," Geralt teased her.

"As long as he doesn't feel the urge to invite himself to our bed after we retire." She peered at the window, watching the heavy flakes fall. "It's interesting, isn't it, Geralt? This snow is markedly different. It has none of the foreboding of the storms that hailed the arrival of the Wild Hunt. This is…almost…beautiful," she concluded. "Although, I admit I might actually be longing for sunnier weather," she hinted, with a glint in her eye. Geralt leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with unspoken satisfaction. She had complained so much at first about the sun and the heat back in Corvo Bianco. "It'll be nice to go home," she added simply, brushing her leg against his under the table.

Her touch warmed him from head to toe. He liked it when she said things like that—when she declared Corvo Bianco was home. Their home. He wondered if they would really succeed in settling into any semblance of placid domesticity. Despite Yen's proposal that they go somewhere far away together, there was too much to leave behind, drawing them back north. They had just been with Ciri in Cintra, where she was establishing some semblance of lawfulness and order. He had no doubt she would rise to the challenge—she was the Lioness of Cintra's granddaughter, after all, and he had caught echoes of Calanthe's strong will and assertiveness in Ciri even as a child. It also helped that the shadow of the Emhyr, ever present and menacing, fell long over the North, prompting negotiation and cooperation with the young future ruler, lest Nilfgaard rise again in displeasure. Yet, despite her newly found sense of duty and service, Geralt had found her still ever his Ciri: they had taken off, evading her security detail and Morvran Voorhis' network of spies for a few days, gallivanting in the countryside, taking common contracts for old times' sake while Yennefer mollified Voorhis back in court and kept him from launching a battalion in their pursuit. There had been some apologizing to the flummoxed man afterwards—some of it even sincere—and some gifting of fine wine from Toussaint. Geralt was certain Emhyr would catch wind of their mischief, but he was also certain of two things: that the man trusted Ciri's abilities, if not her youthfulness, and that he would never challenge that Geralt had every right to claim Ciri's paternal affection. Blood be damned. He did not regret spending that precious time with her; it had done them all good. After Cintra, they had traveled further north to Novigrad, visiting Dandelion and Zoltan at the Chameleon. That had, as always, been an exasperating and eventful trip. Although Dandelion had calmed down somewhat, thanks to Priscilla's overall influence, he was as flighty as ever, perhaps even more so in some ways due to his "ardent and burning passion for Callonetta" ("They make ointment to cure that, ye know," Zoltan had deadpanned). Still, it had been good to play a few rounds of Gwent with old friends, even if he'd had to suffer through one of Dandelion's latest plays ("You must stay! It's the world premiere, Geralt!" Dandelion had informed them self-importantly even as Yennefer concealed a grin). Thankfully, he had met with first Lambert and then Eskel, finding them before they undertook their trek back north to Kaer Morhen for the long winter, thus sparing him from the voyage—something he had promised himself he would do as well…but the following year, only. After that winter they would travel again to Skellige—Cerys had requested it and Ciri had jealously demanded that if that was the plan, then a stop at Nilfgaard would be required from them, as well. Regis, too, had promised to send news once he had found somewhere safe to stay and Geralt wanted to see him again, wherever he was. To be honest, he preferred to be away from Toussaint in the spring—Anarietta would otherwise hound him with florid engraved invitations to various festivals and social events on heavy pastel card stock—and much to his chagrin, would not take "No" for an answer if he was anywhere within Toussaint's borders. He was too restless to let the dust settle for too long on his boots and he knew Yen enjoyed a change of airs, too. But there was an exquisite pleasure in having a place to return to after their voyages—a deeded home, in his name, a reward for his good services. The sprawling fields, the vineyards, the courtyard and main house… all were growing familiar to him. It was reassuring to find B.B. running the estate with his customary efficiency and good humor and Marlene's pots and pans clanging busily in the kitchen. Most of all, he liked how Yennefer had taken her place there, by his side, so naturally and with such ease, and how the household deferred to her, seeking her guidance, as it should from its mistress. It hadn't been too long ago that he had found such a scenario impossible, for so many reasons.

"Long voyage ahead?" the innkeeper wondered from behind the bar, catching Yen mid yawn.

"We are headed south," Geralt replied, guarded per his nature.

"Stay on the main roads," he suggested. "It's not worth the trouble of the back roads."

"Ah…Has there been trouble in the region?"

"Ach…Not really. It's mostly the bad weather this time of year. The Baron's lads are doing what they can to keep the roads safe and clear—not that Nilfgaard has been very helpful! Oh, sure, they like to complain that the road closings affect trade, but do they give us a hand? No." The innkeeper sighed. "I suppose that's the price we pay for some degree of independence, eh? Anyway, you'll want to avoid the back roads this time of year. The woods further west are dangerous."

"How so?" he insisted. Yennefer raised an eyebrow at him. She could tell when he was sniffing out for a contract.

"Wolves," he stated. "You are bound to run into them between Blackbough and Midcopse."

"But that's to be expected in this region," he countered.

"Yes, yes…True enough. But there are rumors…"

"Are there? Of what kind?"

"Well, on more than one occasion, travelers have talked about a large, dark wolf lurking in the forest."

Geralt's expression clouded.

"Really? And what is this large wolf doing to folk?"

The man shuddered.

"This is where things get interesting. This is no ordinary wolf."

Yennefer watched Geralt curiously, making a mental note to ask him what that was all about, why he was so interested.

"They say…" he began, a solemn look on his face. He held still for a moment and then shook his head impatiently. "You know, they say many things, but I don't think I believe them all."

"Believe what?"

The man looked towards the doorway cautiously, as if they weren't alone on that dismal night.

"That he is a wolf man— and our Good Lady's squire," he said softly. "They say the Lady herself wanders those woods."

Geralt's eyes narrowed.

"A lady?"

"No, no… _The_ Lady."

Geralt obviously did not follow the fellow's prattling—his confused expression confirmed it.

"Melitele," he whispered reverently. "She is among us and blesses our woods."

The room fell silent, except for fire crackling nearby.

"The goddess?" Geralt wondered.

The man nodded gravely.

"They say she has been glimpsed walking the woods, in a black hooded cloak, among the wolves, unharmed. And the large dark one always by her side. They do her bidding, you see. They say she protects the innocent and chases out the wicked. It is said that if your intentions are good, you can cross the wood unharmed…But there was a band of brigands that tried to settle in some ruins near Hangman's Alley—they were trying to rob the few merchant caravans that tried to make their way here. The scoundrels that survived the forest's onslaught were chased out clean. They said it was all ferocious and that it was the goddess herself, in her maiden form, who ordered the attack—she commands the wolves, I tell you."

"Has this caused any…trouble?"

The man pursed his lips.

"Trouble? No. The guards from Crow's Perch set out to investigate once—combed the forest, they did, and found nothing. They said that if all the wolves are doing is keeping criminals away, then that was very good by them. Best leave the woods be and in the end it's all less work for everyone, even the Black Ones prefer to stay out of it, but that's hardly surprising given that Nilfgaard gives us plenty of lip, but do I ever see them knee-deep in the snow, shoveling with our lads? No…"

Geralt nodded sympathetically.

"Is it worth looking into?" Yennefer asked once the man mercifully stepped away for a moment. "You and I both know what the likelihood is that this lady really is Melitele…"

"Hmm. It very well might be, Yen." He contemplated her with a lively glint in his eyes. She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously.

"And you don't want to investigate that large 'wolf'?"

"I already have."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

Geralt plunked some coin on the table.

"There is nothing to investigate."

"You mean you _won't_ investigate."

"Exactly."

She crossed her arms, tilting her head at him in bemusement.

"There's a story there, my dear White Wolf. And I want to hear it."

He rose from his bench and gallantly offered her his hand.

"You are right. There is a story. It's a curious one. A strange one."

"I see." She took his hand and he clasped it tightly.

"Ever hear of 'Benandanti?'"

"A little…Shapeshifters, aren't they? Humans who take the shape of wild animals. They protect the woods and farmers, if I remember the accounts correctly. Mostly fairytales."

"I will tell you the story I know." They began to walk together to their room. "It's a good one. You will like it: it has a happy ending, for once" he told her. "But I only realized that now."

* * *

Hanna looked up from the small reader she was practicing her letters from. Almost a year and a half had passed since she had first wandered into that small shack. She looked at it with affection: it was still a rustic hunting hut, but it had, since she began to visit it often with Niellen, acquired a few more amenities. Dry herbs hung off the rafters in the kitchen and a greater number of pots had been stacked on one of the shelves he had built for her. They had provisions neatly stored in small crates lined with straw and dried leaves: tubers and roots and even a few prized gourds. There was salted meat, some grain, and a robust sack of flour for her to make them bread. One of the walls in the room had been lined from top to bottom with firewood—and there was still more heaped outside. It was a reassuring realization because the night was frigid—despite the healthy fire burning in the hearth, snow fell heavily outside. It was very peaceful, though.

She loved their excursions into the forest. She had explored most of those woods, venturing into deep and ancient parts of the forest, discovering virgin groves and visiting moonlit lakes. Now, the wolves no longer frightened her: they walked among her tamely, as if she were one of their own, oblivious to her humanness. She delighted in the days spent in the forest. To the villagers, their arrangement made sense: Hanna did help Niellen field dress game and prepare hides faster, more efficiently. And along with the game he brought in, she contributed by selling herbs, mushrooms, and even, occasionally, honey she had come across in the woods. She felt alive in the forest and had vowed to guard its secrets, to ensure that those who wandered it innocently and respectfully were granted safe passage. She found herself lost in thought, still contemplating the warm, cozy room when she was jolted by the sounds of faint barking and howling in the distance. She got up from the bench and prepared to peer out the door, but a low, gruff voice rose from the pile of blankets and pillows heaped before the hearth.

"No need to go—it's only the full moon rising…and the door to the cave is open if the pack seeks shelter. Now: come here," her wolf commanded in his surly manner.

Cupping her hand beside the candlestick, she blew out the small flame. She knelt beside the large, hulking shape in the blankets. She caressed his dear rugged face, knowing it brought him comfort. The transformations forced by the moon taxed him, she understood.

"Why don't you try saying 'I miss you and desire your company' instead?" she scolded him playfully. A large misshapen hand shot out and pulled her deeper into the sea of covers. On frigid nights such as that one, they bedded by the hearth, to cheat the cold.

"If you know what I meant, then there is no need to say it." He held her against him and appeared to settle comfortably for a moment before balking and contemplating her with his dark eyes. "And what is this? This thing has no use here." He tugged at her work dress.

"Even if I know what you mean, it is nice to hear tender words, you know," she instructed him. "You can be very…How should I put it?… _Bearish_!"

He growled at her jab and she laughed at his grumpiness.

"I am no great talker; it isn't in my nature," he stated simply. "But I hope my acts speak louder than my words."

As his hand brushed her legs over her skirt, she felt a small flutter in her chest. She quickly unbuttoned her dress, a tantalizing flush prickling her cheeks. He looked pleased at her reaction—he noticed everything. The subtlest changes. As she pulled off her stockings, she knew he would be quite aware of her own wolfish intentions towards him.

"Whether I say come here or I miss you—you should know by now that such words, to me, mean the same thing," he spoke in a hushed tone, watching in delight as she unwrapped herself of all the cumbersome clothes, her smooth, pale skin golden in the firelight.

"Ah: I see! Perhaps you understand language better than I thought!" she laughed, cozying up against him as he spooned her, seeking his warmth in the chill of the evening.

"Better than you can imagine. I know, for instance, that when you give me all your warnings to be careful before I step out, what you are really saying is 'I love you.'" He lightly tickled his dark talons over her thigh. She sighed in anticipation and his chest rumbled with a chuckle. "And when you push against me, like that," he noted, his hand coursing down to squeeze her round bottom, "you are telling me you want me…" he uttered in a raspy voice, close to her ear. He let her go suddenly. "But should I make you say it, instead?" he teased.

"I love you something fierce- every bit of you, night and day. And right now I very much want you," she declared earnestly, eliciting a lusty growl from him. "Now, isn't that nice to hear?" she grinned mischievously. He gripped her by the shoulders and turned her around just enough to look at him. The small medal of Melitele glimmered around his neck.

"Hanna, you must know by now: that even when I breathe," he continued, seized by the depth and strength of the bond between them, "it means I love you."

She reached for him and held him tightly, both their hearts full.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's always hard to end a story because, among other things, you leave characters you've enjoyed exploring. I am sad this story is over, but glad I leave Hanna and Niellen well and at peace.
> 
> Thank you for reading, commenting, favoriting and all the good things that make it a real joy to write fics.


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